LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Ls      strjs    xetrxed,  thr-  ln-f^jit    iii'joxi  Tose 
•Ancl  Lathed,  tlie    city  ±11  lier    mellow-  liglit-' 

E.xgx-    61- 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


CHIPS  FROM  THE  WORKSHOP, 


PARNASSUS, 


THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL. 


OTHER    POEMS. 


B  Y    C  H  ARLES    I  VES. 


NEW  HAVEN  : 
HITCHCOCK  &  STAFFORD,  PRINTERS, 


MDCCCXLIIJ. 


ENTERED, 
According  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843,  by 

CHARLES    IVES, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Connecticut. 


TO    MY   CRUTCHES,— 

LONG  TRIED  AND  FAITHFUL, 

THE  CHERISHED  COMPANIONS  OF  MY  SOLITUDE, 

WHO  SUSTAINED  ME  WITH  UNWAVERING  FIDELITY  BY  DAY, 

AND  WITH  A  VIGILANCE  THAT  NEVER  TIRED,  A  WATCHFULNESS  THAT  NEVER 
SLUMBERED,    A    DEVOTION    PURE,    DISINTERESTED,    AND    STEADFAST, 

GUARDED  MY  BEDSIDE  DURING  THE  DARK  AND  SILENT 
WATCHES   OF  THE  NIGHT, 

WHOM  NO  ADULATION  CAN  FLATTER, 

WHOSE    EQUANIMITY   NO    CENSURE    OR   ABUSE    CAN    DISTURB, 

WHOSE  MODESTY  IS  ONLY  EQUALED  BY  THEIR  WORTH, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED, 
BY  THEIR  OBLIGED 

AND  GRATEFUL  FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


The  author  presents  his  grateful  thanks  to  his  friends  and  fellow 
citizens  of  New  Haven,  and  to  the  officers  and  students  of  Yale 
College,  for  the  prompt  and  liberal  manner  in  which  they  have  sub 
scribed  for  his  book.  It  is  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  him,  that  his 
little  volume  is  not  more  worthy  of  their  attention. 


CONTENTS. 


Dedication,                          -  3 
PARNASSUS,       -                                         ....           9 

THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM,  OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL,  -               61 
MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Farewell  to  Connecticut,                 -             -             -  115 

Letter  to  Henrietta,      -  121 

To  Emma,  -       126 

Lines  Inspired  by  some  Rheumatic  Twitches,  128 

To  Rebecca,  -       129 

To  Clarissa — a  Valentine,        -                          -  130 

An  Evening  Ramble  on  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  -       131 

Musings  on  Death,      -  134 

To  Ella,                              -             -             -             -  -       136 

O  Call  Again,  139 

A  Stray  Angel,     -  -       140 

The  Withered  Rose,  141 
Lines  Addressed  to  a  Lady  upon  the  Receipt  of  a  Splendid 

Cactus,        -  -       142 
Lines  Written  after  a  Pleasant  Interview  with  I  know  who,       144 

Love  and  Fire,             ....  146 


CO  NTENTS. 

To  Mary — a  Valentine,     -  149 
Lines  Addressed  to  a  Lady,  who  told  the  Author  that  her 

Eyes  were  Gray,                            -  151 

The  Fairy  Wreath,  -       152 

Love  at  the  Virginia  Springs,  153 

Lines  to  an  Absent  Lady,  -       164 

The  Myrtle  Wreath,  165 

What  is  Death,     -  167 

A  Dream  of  Childhood,  170 

Cold  Water,  -       172 

The  Author  to  his  Readers,      -             -  -             -             175 


PARNASSUS, 

AN  INTRODUCTORY  POEM. 


ANALYSIS. — A  pilgrim  wanders  to  the  foot  of  Parnassus — the  ideal  mount  of  poetry. 
His  appearance  and  character  in  part  described.  He  addresses  the  mountain,  and 
his  voice  alarms  its  guardian  spirit.  A  dialogue  ensues.  The  spirit  is  amused  with 
his  appearance,  and  astonished  at  his  presumption.  It  tries  to  persuade  him  to  wait 
the  return  of  health  and  strength,  before  he  attempts  the  difficult  ascent.  Is  unsuc 
cessful.  The  pilgrim  thinks  if  blind  men  have  succeeded,  the  lame  ought  not  to  be 
discouraged.  The  spirit  tells  him  they  were  able  to  ride  a  bold  and  fiery  steed  called 
Pegasus — (the  embodied  fancy.)  This  steed  the  pilgrim  calls  for,  and  being  willing 
to  run  all  risk,  the  spirit  agrees  to  gratify  him,  provided  he  answers  certain  questions 
satisfactorily.  It  inquires  if  he  is  rich,  and  upon  being  answered  in  the  affirmative, 
tells  him  there  is  no  chance  for  success.  The  pilgrim  explains  what  he  means  by 
riches — not  gold,  palaces,  &c.,  but  friendship,  love,  and  the  ties  of  consanguinity; 
that  time  is  wealth,  contentment,  and  the  power  the  mind  possesses  of  appropriating 
and  enjoying  the  property  of  another  ;  freedom  from  care  and  fear  of  loss ;  conversing 
with  men  of  genius  through  their  works;  republican  institutions — this  leads  to  "  The 
Patriot's  Song."  The  spirit  then  inquires  if  he  has  been  to  college.  He  laments  that 
he  has  not.  The  spirit  tells  him  he  has  no  cause  to  mourn — it  will  not  retard  his  suc 
cess.  The  last  inquiry  is,  if  he  is  nobly  born.  The  pilgrim  replies  that  he  was— his 
father  and  his  mother's  father  were  both  sons  of  Vulcan.  Satisfied  with  his  answers, 
the  spirit  calls  for  Pegasus — describes  the  whip,  ambition ;  the  spur,  passion ;  the 
bridle,  reason ;  tells  him  he  must  expect  to  suffer  want  at  first,  and  that  he  need  not 
be  alarmed  by  the  self-constituted  guardians  at  the  foot  who  will  try  to  frighten 
him  ;  that  there  is  no  great  highway,  and  that  he  must  make  a  path  for  himself.  The 
pilgrim  mounts.  For  his  success,  the  reader  is  referred  to  future  pages  and  to 
coming  years. 


PARNASSUS, 

AN  INTRODUCTORY  POEM. 


I. 

A  YOUTH  from  home,  and  friends,  and  country  straying 
To  where  Parnassus  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Paused  at  its  foot,  and  while  the  mount  surveying, 
A  tear  was  seen  to  dim  his  anxious  eye, 
And  oft  his  laboring  breast  brought  forth  a  sigh  ; 
Like  aspen  leaves  his  bony  fingers  shook  ; 
At  which  no  one  would  marvel  or  ask  why, 
Could  they  on  him,  then,  on  that  summit  look ; 
But  Hope  soon  banished  Fear,  his  heart  fresh  courage  took. 

II. 

I  will  not  now  describe  the  dress  he  wore, 
But  merely  say  his  coat  had  once  been  new, 
Its  threads  were  villous  in  the  days  of  yore, 
But  what  its  color  was,  no  mortal  knew  ; 
2 


10  PARNASSUS. 

Some  thought  it  had  been  black,  some  brown,  some  blue — 
For  light  and  heat,  air,  water,  and  old  Time, 
Had  greatly  changed,  if  not  improved  its  hue  ; 
And  when  fops  laughed,  he  did  not  care  a  dime  ; 
No  virtue  it  conferred,  to  wear  it  was  no  crime. 

III. 

His  hat  was  alamode  when  first  he  bought  it, 
And  though  an  exquisite  might  deem  the  brim 
A  little  narrow,  he  for  years  had  thought  it 
A  paragon  in  shape,  size,  color,  trim — 
In  fact,  it  was  the  hat  that  suited  him ; 
For  he  had  learned,  from  Fortune's  frowns  no  doubt, 
If  he  would  banish  Want,  with  visage  grim, 
He  must,  when  Fashion  turned  right  square  about, 
Keep  all  his  old  clothes  on  until  he  wore  them  out. 

IV. 

Lean  was  his  visage,  sickly,  pale,  and  wan, 
For  fell  Disease  had  marked  him  for  her  own ; 
And  ere  his  sun  one  third  its  course  had  run, 
Life's  lamp  burnt  dim,  and  health  and  strength  had  flown  ; 
And  he  was  doomed  to  reap  who  ne'er  had  sown, 
(For  such  is  sometimes  heaven's  all-wise  behest,) 
Yet  to  his  lips  repinings  were  unknown ; 
The  bitterest  draught,  he  said,  was  often  best, 
And  microscopic  man  complains  when  most  he's  blest. 


PARNASSUS.  11 

Y. 

Some  looked  quite  sad,  that  shook  him  by  the  hand, 
They  thought  him  hovering  o'er  that  dark  abyss 
Whose  depths  unknown  lead  to  the  spirit-land, 
Where  greater  ills  await,  or  greater  bliss 
Than  e'er  was  felt,  or  e'er  conceived  in  this, 
If  holy  books  speak  true,  and  holy  men  ; 
At  which  he  smiled  and  said,  they  could  dismiss 
Their  fears — he  should  not  leave  them  yet,  and  when 
Death  came  he  might  himself  look  sad- — but  not  till  then. 

VI. 

As  noble  virtues  oft  the  bad  redeem, 
'Gainst  none  he  harbored  malice  or  ill-will, 
And  there  were  many  he  did  much  esteem  ; 
Though  warm  affections  cold  neglect  can  chill, 
The  memory  of  the  past  he  cherished  still. 
Nor  deem  that  love  was  to  his  breast  unknown, 
Or  beauty's  glance  could  not  his  bosom  thrill, 
Admiring  many,  he  had  loved  but  one, 
Yet  cruel  Fortune  frowned,  and  bade  him  live  alone. 

VII. 

The  cloud-capped  mountains  and  the  stars  above  him, 
Lakes,  rivers,  oceans,  were  his  bosom  friends  ; 
But  does  the  storm-cloud,  does  the  damp  wind  love  hiin  ? 
Alas !  their  cold  and  chilly  breath  but  lends 


12  PARNASSUS. 

New  power  to  torture,  and  to  pain  that  rends 
And  racks  his  shattered  tenement  of  clay, 
And  o'er  eternity's  dark  gulf  suspends 
His  brief  existence  :  yet,  perchance,  they  may 
Be  sent  from  some  bright  world  to  hasten  him  away. 

VIII. 

So  heavy  was  the  load  himself  had  borne, 
The  cup  so  bitter  he  was  doomed  to  quaff, 
That  when  for  little  griefs  he  heard  men  mourn, 
Instead  of  pity,  he  could  only  laugh  ; 
And  had  he  prayed  to  heaven  in  their  behalf, 
'T would  not  have  been  that  he  with  them  might  share  it, 
That  God  would  stay  his  chastening  rod  or  staff, 
But  that  he'd  lay  it  on  and  never  spare  it, 
Till  they  had  better  hearts  and  souls  and  backs  to  bear  it. 

IX. 

Thus  war-worn  veterans — wounded,  maimed,  and  scarred  ; 
The  lone  survivors  of  a  thousand  fields 
Of  blood  and  carnage — taught  to  disregard 
The  battle-shout,  at  which  the  firm  earth  reels, 
The  roar  and  din  of  conflict,  and  the  peals 
Of  death  from  out  the  hoarse  harsh  cannon's  mouth — 
Thus,  thus,  I  ween,  the  blood-dyed  warrior  feels, 
Who  hears  the  boasts  of  pugilistic  youth, 
When    Bacchus  fires   their  blood — perchance  the  sunny 
South. 


PARNASSUS.  13 

X. 

When  base  and  craven  souls  did  bow  the  knee 
To  rank,  vain  titles,  wealth,  power,  pride,  or  birth, 
He  scorned  their  truckling,  and  right  haughtily 
Looked  down  upon  those  air-blown  sons  of  earth, 
Whose  tinsel  greatness  oft  provoked  his  mirth  ; 
His  homage  he  reserved  for  God's  nobless, 
For  heaven-born  genius,  and  for  real  worth ; 
Though  rude  and  rough,  like  costly  gems,  their  dress, 
The  diamond-hues  that  scintillate  their  worth  confess, 

XL 

He  looked  with  interest  on  the  busy  world, 
And  pondered  much  upon  the  changing  scene, 
And  paused  where  pleasure's  eddying  circles  whirled, 
And  e'en  o'er  ruin's  vortex  dared  to  lean, 
That  he  might  there  some  useful  lessons  glean 
To  guide  his  footsteps  in  the  coming  years  ; 
He  was  not  dazzled  by  earth's  outward  sheen, 
And  yet  to  him  'twas  not  a  vale  of  tears, 
Though  'mid  its  fruits  and  flowers  apparent  ill  appears. 

XIL 

As  stands  the  sapling  which  the  tempest  shook, 
Bowed,  bent,  and  broken  by  the  angry  blast, 
Wearing  in  Spring  the  yellow,  deathly  look 
Of  Autumn,  and  its  bright  green  glories  cast 
2* 


14  PARNASSUS. 

Like  blasted  hopes,  marking  where  Ruin  passed — 
So  stood  the  pilgrim  ;  bowed  but  not  depressed, 
His  ardent  mind  with  aspirations  vast, 
And  high  was  filled  ;  and  it  must  be  confessed, 

Wild,  groundless  seemed  his  hopes  who  thus  the  mount 
addressed : 

XIII. 

"  Thou  glorious  summit  where  the  Muses  dwell, 
And  minstrels  charm  the  happy  hours  away, 
I  long  to  tread  your  heights  and  bid  farewell 
To  these  dull  plains  :  and  on  thy  breast  to  lay 
My  weary  head  ;  compelled  too  long  to  stray 
Amid  life's  dark,  and  damp,  and  gloomy  vales  ; 
And,  though  my  heart  has  never  known  dismay, 
I  fain  would  mount  where  ideal  bliss  prevails, 

Where  Fancy  plumes  her  wings,  and  spreads  her  fairy  sails. 

XIV. 

"  Far-famed  Parnassus  !  round  thy  rocky  base 
A  weary  pilgrim  would  no  longer  roam, 
For  high  above  his  eyes  delighted  trace, 
Where  thou  dost  lift  to  heaven  thy  lofty  dome , 
From  whence  those  sounds  of  thrilling  music  come, 
That  burn  and  glow  with  such  celestial  fire  ; 
These  charmed  the  pilgrim  in  his  distant  home, 
Who  now,  with  vain  presumption,  would  aspire 
To  sweep  those  magic  strings,  and  wake  that  magic  lyre." 


PARNASSUS.  15 

XV. 

Thus  spake  the  youth — his  loud,  clear  voice  alarmed 
The  watchful  spirit  who  long  since  was  sent 
To  guard  and  keep  the  sacred  mount  unharmed  ; 
And  oft  their  rashness  pilgrims  did  repent, 
And  wish,  too  late,  that  they  had  been  content, 
Nor  tried  in  vain  to  climb  who  scarce  could  crawl ; 
For  to  the  spirit  powerful  arms  were  lent ; 
Contempt  and  ridicule  obeyed  its  call, 
And  e'en  its  very  silence  could  the  heart  appall. 

XVI. 

Alas,  that  earth  should  blast  a  spirit's  joy ! 
But  this  was  sighing  o'er  its  luckless  doom, 
To  watch  both  night  and  day  its  sole  employ. 
To  heaven-born  spirits  earth  is  Joy's  dark  tomb 
Without  death's  quiet ;  'tis  a  fruitful  womb, 
Whose  children  people  and  compose  a  hell ! 
But  joys  and  sorrows,  barrenness  and  bloom 
Are  relative  ;  those  who  were  born  and  dwell 
On  Greenland's  shores,  do  love  their  cold  bleak  mountains 
well ; 

XVII. 

And  should  they  roam  beneath  a  southern  sky, 
'T would  breed  a  fever  in  each  frigid  vein  ; 
Thus  could  we  reach  the  heaven  for  which  we  sigh, 
If  all  unchanged,  we  could  not  there  remain, 


16  PARNASSUS. 

But  would  thank  God  to  show  us  earth  again  ;     x 

Can  mortal  eyes  gaze  on  the  sun's  bright  light  ? 

Our  very  pleasures  are  increased  by  pain, 

And  were  not  man  a  weak  and  par-blind  wight, 
He  would  long  since  have  learned  God  orders  all  things 
right. 

XVIII. 

How  beautiful  that  mount  to  look  at !     Yet 

An  irksome  task  the  guardian  genius  had, 

For  countless  aspirants  did  aye  beset 

The  hill  on  every  side,  and  all  were  clad 

With  self-sufficiency  and  pride — good,  bad, 

Indifferent ;  of  all  that  countless  throng 

Two  thirds  at  least  seemed  fools — three  quarters,  mad  ; 

Yet  some  choice  spirits,  doubtless,  were  among 
The  host,  whose  hearts  were  pregnant  with  immortal  song. 

XIX. 

Roused  by  his  voice,  perhaps  by  pity  moved, 
The  spirit  towards  the  pilgrim  did  advance  ; 
With  searching  looks  now  each  the  other  viewed — 
The  spirit's  mirth  increased  with  every  glance, 
And  laughter  smiled  upon  its  countenance  : 
"  From  whence  and  who  art  thou  ?"  at  length  it  said, 
"  What  strange,  sad  fortune — what  mysterious  chance 
To  this  lone  mountain  hath  thy  footsteps  led  ? 
Thou  surely  canst  not  hope  those  lofty  heights  to  tread !" 


PARNASSUS.  17 

XX. 

Calm,  cool,  collected,  fearless,  and  unawed, 
With  firm  resolve  implanted  in  each  look, 
And  an  indifference  stoics  might  applaud, 
No  notice  of  the  speech  the  pilgrim  took; 
But  first  the  dust  from  off  his  clothes  he  shook, 
Then  gently  asked,  regardless  of  its  frown, 
"  Is  that  Parnassus  ?"     Spirits  ill  can  brook 
Such  cold  indifference — from  a  youth  unknown 
More  rude  it  seemed,  though  for  it  custom  might  atone. 

XXI, 

"  Who  art  thou  and  from  whence  ?  I  asked,  young  man, 
Which  thou  must  answer  without  much  ado, 
Or  feel  a  spirit's  curse,  and  hear  its  ban !" 
"  The  first  already  I  supposed  you  knew, 
For  thy  keen  glance  did  pierce  me  through  and  through  ; 
Names  are  mere  sounds,  before  thee  I  now  stand, 
And  thou  canst  see  both  what  I  am  and  who  ; 
And  I  have  also  told  my  native  land, 
In  terms  e'en  mortal  men,  if  shrewd,  might  understand." 

XXII. 

His  racy  answer  much  the  sprite  annoyed, 
But  to  seem  angry  'twas  in  vain  it  tried, 
All  sternness  fled  before  such  cool  sang  froid  ; 
So,  casting  harsher  words  and  looks  aside, 


18  PARNASSUS. 

It  with  becoming  mildness  thus  replied : 
"  Thy  words  are  false,  though  specious,  pert,  and  tart ; 
Hadst  thou  lived  longer,  thou  hadst  not  denied 
Man's  name  is  oft  his  most  important  part — 
But  how  canst  thou  affirm  thou  told  me  whence  thou  art  ?' 

XXIII. 

The  youth  rejoined :  "  Earth's  sons  have  many  ways 
To  answer  questions,  and  have  ye  but  one  ? 
When  words  deceive,  some  action  oft  betrays 
The  hidden  truth ;  looks  tell  what  hands  have  done, 
And  men  make  known  their  hate  to  that  they  shun ; 
Dress,  habits,  manners  speak,  when  mouths  are  shut ; 
As  sable  skins  proclaim  a  southern  sun, 
My  question  in  reply  to  those  you  put, 
Declared  to  thee  aloud  :  '  I'm  thine,  Connecticut !' " 

XXIV. 

"  A  Yankee's  logic  !  shrewd  and  fitly  spoken  ! 
I  might,  indeed,  have  known  from  whence  you  came ; 
There  is  no  better  sign,  or  seal,  or  token 
Of  a  true  Yankee,  than  the  one  you  name, 
And  for  my  dullness  I  am  much  to  blame. 
But  what  strange  fancy,  pray,  has  brought  you  here  ? 
Thou  canst  not  climb  the  mount,  for  thou  art  lame  ; 
And  it  were  new,  and  marvelous,  and  queer, 
To  carry  '  Yankee  notions'  where  there  is  no  gear ! 


PARNASSUS.  19 

XXV. 

"  But  you,  'tis  said,  are  an  ingenious  race — 
And  famed  for  prudence  ;  hence  may  have  foreseen 
That  feeble  steps  cannot  the  mountain  trace  ; 
Or,  having  heard  what  dangers  intervene — 
Steep  rugged  cliffs,  with  yawning  gulfs  between, 
And  frightful  horrors,  painful  e'en  to  mention — 
You  now  have  come  to  set  up  some  machine, 
For  there  appears  no  bounds  to  your  invention ; 
Pray  tell  me  fairly,  Sir,  if  such  is  your  intention? 

XXVI. 

"  But  hark  ye  !  if  so,  the  attempt  is  vain  ; 
For  though  ye  rib  the  earth  from  sea  to  sea 
With  iron ;  and  to  the  long  and  loaded  train 
Yoke  the  red  lightning  ;  though  the  winds  to  thee 
Yield  up  their  strength,  and  thy  supremacy 
The  rivers  own — thou  canst  devise  no  mode 
By  which  to  increase  the  facility 
Of  access  to  the  minstrel's  blest  abode  ; 
But  all  must  toil  and  tread  where  all  have  ever  trod." 

XXVII. 

"  You  may  dismiss  your  fears,"  the  pilgrim  said, 
"  Though  noted  is  the  land  from  whence  I  came 
For  its  inventions,  ye  have  naught  to  dread ; 
No  such  wild  fancy  ever  will  inflame 


20  PARNASSUS. 

A  Yankee's  bosom,  as  the  one  you  name ; 
Though  mountains  bow  themselves,  and  valleys  rise 
At  our  dread  mandate,  yet  the  mount  of  Fame 
Is  sacred ;  while  competing  for  the  prize, 
All  short  and  easy  modes  of  access  we  despise. 

XXVIII. 

"  To  make  machines  or  cross  roads,  strongly  savors 
Of  conscious  weakness,  but  our  lot  we  cast 
With  honorable  rivals,  and  no  favors 
Ask  ;  when  the  timid  pause  and  stand  aghast, 
Our  hopes  are  bright,  our  aspirations  vast ; 
Although  the  prize  may  be  beyond  our  reach, 
Yet  had  the  present  ne'er  excelled  the  past, 
Could  timid  Caution  Enterprise  impeach, 
And  Prudence  cast  Hope's  bold,  gay  bark  upon  the  beach. 

XXIX. 

"  Nor  do  I  seek,  in  this  most  barren  spot, 
Commercial  gain  ;  to  bring  our  far-famed  ware 
To  such  a  market,  were  indeed  a  blot 
On  our  good  name.     Must  I  to  you  declare 
Some  scaled  those  heights,  and  made  a  lodgment  there, 
Whose  sightless  orbs  could  not  detect  the  light  ? 
If  blind  men  triumph,  shall  the  lame  despair  ? 
I  am,  'tis  true,  in  a  most  wretched  plight, 
But  not  so  bad  as  those  who  grope  in  endless  night." 


PARNASSUS.  21 

XXX. 

"  Although,"  replied  the  sprite,  "  some  who  were  blind 
Have  tried  to  climb  the  mount,  and  have  succeeded, 
Yet  for  each  Homer  thousands  you  will  find 
Who  left  advice  and  protests  all  unheeded, 
And  learned  too  late  that  one  thing  more  was  needed  ; 
They  had  not  Milton's  eyes,  yet  .could  not  ride 
The  well  known,  bold,  and  fiery  steed  that  he  did, 
And  when  the  vain  attempt  they  madly  tried, 
Soon  headlong  they  were  hurled  far  down  the  mountain  side. 

XXXI. 

"  And  art  thou  tinctured  with  the  same  ambition  ? 
And  can  it  be  you  seriously  intend 
To  try  your  fortune  while  in  this  condition  ? 
If  so,  let  me  advise  you  as  a  friend, 
Awhile,  at  least,  this  project  to  suspend, 
Till  health  returning  bids  Disease  retire, 
And  Strength  and  Vigor  all  their  influence  lend  ; 
A  sickly  load  soon  Pegasus  would  tire, 
Droop  Fancy's  wings,  and  quench  Imagination's  fire. 

XXXII. 

"  Besides,  ye  know  not,  dream  not  of  the  toil, 
The  hardship,  and  the  danger  of  the  way, 
Which  oft  have  made  the  boldest  hearts  recoil, 
When 'wild  ambition  led  their  feet  astray. 
3 


22  PARNASSUS. 

But  all  must  one  day  for  their  folly  pay 
A  fearful  price  ;  and  though  postponed  awhile, 
There's  ample  interest  for  each  hour's  delay. 
If  Vengeance  seems  to  sleep,  and  Justice  smile, 
How  soon  the  victim  learns  'twas  only  to  beguile !" 

XXXIII. 

The  spirit  paused — the  listener's  brow  was  knit, 
His  lips  scorn  shook,  while  Indignation  burned 
Upon  his  pallid  cheek  :   "  Thy  words  befit," 
He  said,  "  a  craven  spirit,  but  are  spurned 
By  one  whose  purpose  Fear  has  never  turned. 
Go  prate  of  hardship  where  the  faint  winds  sigh — 
And  they  may  hear  thee  :  I  long  since  have  learned 
To  fix  my  thoughts  and  aspirations  high — 
What  may  and  can  be  done,  we  know  not  till  we  try. 

XXXIV. 

"  Bring  forth  the  steed !  I  must  and  will  advance  ; 
Without  some  venture  what  can  man  obtain  ? 
Tired  of  her  frowns,  dame  Fortune  may,  perchance, 
Light  with  a  smile  her  adverse  face  again ; 
Men  call  her  fickle,  and  the  changing  vane 
Is  thought  her  symbol ;  yet  she's  been  to  me 
As  stable  as  the  hills  ;  thus  to  remain 
In  thick-veiled  darkness  would  unsex  her  ;  she 
A  female  ?     Where  has  woman  shown  such  constancy  ? 


PARNASSUS.  23 

XXXV. 

"  Bring  forth!  bring  forth  the  steed  !  Thy  fear  and  doubt 
May  fright  the  timid  or  deter  the  weak ; 
But  had  each  rock  a  tongue — should  each  tongue  shout 
Its  warning — and  each  note  like  volleyed  thunder  speak, 
They  could  not  shake  my  purpose  ;  I  will  seek — 
Though  perils  lurk  in  every  forest  leaf — 
To  climb  the  mountain  to  its  topmost  peak ; 
If  thousands  fail,  there's  more  to  share  the  grief; 
And  brighter,  greener  laurels  crown  the  minstrel  chief." 

XXXVI. 

He  ceased ;  but  still  the  flashing  of  his  restless  eye 
Declared  the  settled  purpose  of  a  soul, 
Resolved  at  every  hazard  to  defy 
Whate'er  opposed  his  progress  to  the  goal 
On  which  his  heart  was  fixed.     Nought  could  control 
His  ardor — weak  to  do,  yet  bold  to  dare  ; 
And  'mid  defeat  such  boldness  can  console 
The  aching  heart,  and  drive  away  despair  : — 
But  what  the  spirit  said  my  pen  must  now  declare. 

XXXVII. 

"  When  youth  and  health  with  confidence  are  swelling, 
It  is  not  strange  that  oft  they  seek  to  climb 
The  mount  where  minstrels  have  their  happy  dwelling, 
And  Music,  lingering  on  the  shores  of  Time, 


24  PARNASSUS. 

Gives  birth  to  strains  immortal  and  sublime  ; — 
But  when  the  lily  drives  the  rose  away, 
And  pale  Death  points  to  heaven's  more  favored  clime, 
I  marvel  much  that  you  should  hither  stray, 
To  wake  earth's  harsher  lyres  and  sing  a  transient  lay." 

XXXVIII. 

To  this  the  pilgrim  was  about  replying, 
That  though  heaven's  harps,  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Might  cheer  the  darkened  prospects  of  the  dying, 
While  life's  red  currents  beat,  no  childish  fears 
Should  banish  joy,  or  cause  ignoble  tears, 
That  earth  was  his  to-day,  and  he  should  try, 
Whate'er  might  be  his  doom  in  coming  years, 
To  climb  the  mount,  however  steep  and  high — 
When  thus  the  sprite  resumed,  preventing  a  reply  : 

XXXIX. 

"  I  see  your  mind  is  fixed,  and  that  persuasion 
Can  do  no  real  or  apparent  good, 
But  thou  wilt  learn  too  late  how  much  occasion 
Existed  for  my  counsel  ;  to  obtrude 
Such  warning  and  advice  unasked,  seems  rude 
Perchance — my  words  too  harsh,  my  looks  too  stern  ; 
But  when  the  halt  and  sick  false  hopes  delude, 
I  melt  with  pity,  or  with  anger  burn, 
And  am  compelled  to  urge  or  force  them  to  return. 


PARNASSUS.  25 

XL. 

"  But  thou  dost  call  for  Pegasus — a  steed 
That  very  few  can  ride,  that  few  have  rode  ; 
Small,  small  will  be  thy  chance,  yet  great  thy  need 
Of  his  assistance,  for  though  Want  will  goad, 
And  Instinct  guide,  where  Art  has  made  no  road, 
Without  Ambition's  whip  and  Passion's  spur, 
He  sinks  inactive  'neath  the  cumbrous  load ; 
And  then,  the  weak  and  timid  to  deter, 
He  hurls  them  from  his  back  when  these  his  mettle  stir. 

XLI. 

"  I  like  your  courage,  confidence,  and  zeal, 
The  firm  resolve  which  nought  can  bend  or  bow, 
The  aspirations  words  and  looks  reveal, 
The  mind  resolved  to  win,  it  knows  not  how, 
And  I  will  bring  the  steed  if  thou  canst  show 
That  thou  art  worthy  such  exalted  honor, 
For  'tis  not  every  mortal  we  allow 
To  rudely  gaze,  much  less  to  get  upon  her, 
And  most  of  those  that  do,  are  taught  ere  long  to  shun  her. 

XLII. 

"  Some  questions  must  be  asked,  ere  I  comply  ; 
And  first  let  me  inquire  if  thou  art  rich  ?" 
"  Croesus  himself  was  not  more  rich  than  I." 
"  Then  all  your  hopes  are  vain !     In  Mammon's  ditch 
3* 


26  PARNASSUS. 

"  The  sordid  grovel ;  Pegasus  would  pitch 
And  stumble  'neath  the  dull  and  heavy  load  ; 
And  where  the  Muses  dwell,  there  is  no  niche 
In  which  the  useless  treasure  could  be  stowed ; 
Men  cannot  wake  the  lyre  when  gold  their  hearts  corrode." 

XLIII. 

"  I  little  thought  a  spirit  need  be  told," 
The  astonished  pilgrim  to  the  sprite  replied, 
"  That  real  wealth  does  not  consist  of  gold. 
That  unbought  friendship,  which,  when  ills  betide, 
Like  raging  tempests  round  the  mountain  side, 
Shines  like  the  sun  which  gilds  the  mountain's  head, 
Dispels  the  clouds  on  which  the  storm-gods  ride — 
He  values  more  whose  palace  is  a  shed, 
Than  all  the  gold  that  sleeps  within  earth's  rocky  bed. 

XLIV. 

"  But  who  with  sacrilegious  hands  would  dare 
To  weigh  with  gold  the  earthly  heaven  of  love ! 
What  heart  did  ere  its  holy  raptures  share, 
By  moonlight  on  the  shore  or  in  the  grove, 
And  then  so  fiendish,  so  inhuman  prove ! 
A  solitary,  bleak,  and  barren  isle, 
If  shared  with  one  who  round  the  heart  has  wove 
Her  charms  like  chains,  with  many  an  artless  wile, 
Would  like  Elisium  wear  one  bright,  unclouded  smile. 


PARNASSUS.  27 

XLV. 

"  The  sire  that  calls  the  blue-eyed  boy  his  own  ; 
The  wife  that  greets  her  infant  with  a  kiss  ; 
He  that  a  brother's,  sister's  ties  has  known, 
And  shared  a  mother's  love,  and  felt  its  bliss- 
Are  surely  rich,  and  know  what  true  wealth  is. 
Though  in  the  world  to  come  they  dream  of  heaven, 
Such  are  the  joys  these  ties  confer  in  this, 
When  called  to  leave  the  earth  their  hearts  are  riven, 
Though  one  sure  key  to  bliss  they  know  to  Death  is  given. 

XLVI. 

"  There  is  one  great  estate  God  gives  to  all, 
Though  not  to  all  alike,  for  he  bestows 
His  favors  with  a  partial  hand ;  men  call 
It  Time.     When  Death  confers  the  grave's  repose, 
Eternal  ages  will,  perchance,  disclose 
What  now  religion  dimly  shadows  forth, 
And  some  believe,  some  doubt,  and  some  suppose — 
Showing  what  mighty  scenes  in  time  had  birth, 
When  some  who  people  distant  worlds  dwelt  on  the  earth. 

XLVII. 

"  One  little  spark  the  moral  world  may  melt ; 
A  thought  for  ages  live  when  we  are  gone  ; 
A  single  act  may  make  its  influence  felt 
In  every  star  round  God's  eternal  throne  ; 


28  PARNASSUS. 

A  word,  if  fitly  spoke,  may  still  speak  on, 
And  move  men's  minds  in  every  age  and  clime  ; 
A  day — an  hour — has  seen  vast  kingdoms  won — 
And  each  and  all,  with  eloquence  sublime, 
Proclaim  to  man  the  worth,  the  priceless  worth  of  time. 

XLVIII, 

"  Dollars  and  pounds  are  a  fallacious  measure 
Of  real  wealth  ;  the  poorest  man  alive 
May  have  his  garners  filled  with  costly  treasure, 
And  from  his  broad  estates  each  year  derive 
A  princely  income  ;  craven  souls  may  strive 
To  do  him  homage — for  they  swarm  like  flies 
Around  corruption,  and  on  offal  thrive : 
He  might  be  rich,  but  in  his  soul  there  lies 
A  burning,  maudlin  thirst  for  more,  that  never  dies. 

XLIX. 

"  'Tis  not  in  splendid  vessels  or  rich  freights, 
Which  proudly  float  or  line  the  crowded  docks — 
Nor  in  the  size  or  value  of  estates, 
Where  many  a  verdant  field  at  famine  mocks — 
'Tis  not  in  lowing  herds  or  bleating  flocks, 
Or  treasures  worshiped,  hoarded,  but  not  spent, 
'Tis  not  in  deeds,  or  mortgages,  or  stocks, 
That  true  wealth  lies  :  -a  body  bowed  and  bent 
With  ingots  of  fine  gold,  is  poor  without  content. 


PARNASSUS.  29 

L. 

"  The  rude,  rough  cabin — dingy,  dark,  and  small — 
If  o'er  its  humble  hearth  Content  preside, 
Not  the  proud  palace  with  its  marble  wall, 
Its  couch  of  ease,  its  luxury,  its  pride, 
Where  Music's  voice  is  heard,  and  fair  forms  glide — 
Can  ere  in  wealth  compete,  in  bliss  compare, 
If  this  one  treasure  only  is  denied  ; 
These  form  the  tinsel  and  the  outward  glare 
Of  wealth — its  life,  its  soul,  its  substance  is  not  there. 

LI. 

"  There  is  in  nature  an  agrarian  law, 
Which  to  one  level  brings  both  rich  and  poor — 
I  mean  not  Death,  from  whose  insatiate  maw 
No  treasures,  honors,  titles  can  insure,   - 
Whose  might  omnivorous,  all  alike  endure — 
But  the  power  of  mind ;  by  which,  sight  serves  in  lieu 
Of  ownership  ;  all  life's  few  wants  procure, 
The  rich  their  large  estates  can  only  view, 
And  these  the  poor  behold — aye,  and  enjoy  them  too. 

LII. 

"  I  gaze  with  rapture  on  the  verdant  fields, 

It  is  in  part  for  me  that  they  are  sown  ; 

For  me  spring  blooms,  its  fruits  the  autumn  yields, 

Though  not  a  rod  of  land  I  call  my  own  ; 


30  PARNASSUS. 

To  title-deeds  my  name  is  all  unknown, 
Which  saves  much  trouble,  time,  and  anxious  care  ; 
Insurance,  taxes,  law-suits,  cause  no  frown  ; 
No  worthless  spendthrift  ere  can  be  my  heir ; 
No  deadly  feuds  arise  where  there  is  nought  to  share. 

LIII. 

"  The  splendid  palace  calls  me  not  its  lord ; 
The  flower-decked  cottage  on  the  clear  lake's  side, 
Where  sylvan  shades  adorn  the  bright  green  sward, 
And  graveled  walks  the  verdant  lawns  divide, 
And  rosy  health  and  competence  abide — 
Men  call  not  mine ;  and  yet  they  yield  to  me 
A  bliss  for  which,  perchance,  their  owner  sighed 
In  vain ;  all  that  is  beautiful  I  see — 
What  else— save  toil  and  care  and  trouble— pray,  has  he  ? 

LIV. 

"  When  the  proud  city  gleams  with  lurid  light, 
And  loud  shrill  voices  and  the  pealing  bell 
Grate  on  the  hushed  and  listening  ear  of  night, 
And  fire  and  smoke  and  flame  and  maddening  yell 
Give  to  the  earth  the  semblance  of  a  hell — 
Roused  by  the  cry,  their  golden  visions  gone, 
The  rich,  with  fears  each  look  proclaims  too  well, 
Inquire  if  with  the  smoke  their  wealth  has  flown— 
While  I,  secure  from  loss,  composedly  sleep  on. 


PARNASSUS.  31 

LV. 

"  Of  all  that  float  upon  the  treacherous  sea, 
And  tempt  its  unknown  depths,  its  currents  cross, 
Not  one,  I  trow,  ere  heard  or  cares  for  me, 
Not  one,  were  I  to  die,  would  dream  of  loss, 
Feel  severed  friendship's  pang,  or  love's  remorse  : 
In  ocean's  dark  blue  depths  should  they  go  down, 
Wrecked  every  ship,  and  every  man  a  corse, 
My  heart,  although  not  steeled,  could  hardly  groan 
O'er  wealth,  and  love,  and  friendship  it  had  never  known. 

LVI. 

"  When  shedding — blood  ?     O  no  !  not  blood,  but  ink — 
Which  makes  no  widows,  leaves  no  orphans  weeping ; 
Or  when  my  fevered  lips  delighted  drink — 
From  wine  cups  ?     No  !   0  know  !  in  them  lie  steeping 
The  roots  and  seeds  of  hell !     Fiends  there  are  keeping 
Their  watch  for  souls  ! — But  when  I  quaff  the  lore 
Of  other  times,  and  midnight  winds  are  sweeping 
Around  my  dwelling,  I  might  more  deplore 
Their  violence,  had  I  aught  to  lose  on  sea  or  shore. 

LVII. 

"  This  calm,  unruffled  quiet ;  this  relief 
From  cares  that  canker  and  corrode  the  soul ; 
This  freedom  from  that  deep,  though  borrowed  grief, 
That  springs  from  fear  of  loss ;  this  self-control, 


32  PARNASSUS. 

That  brings  wants  and  desires  within  the  goal 
Of  prudence  and  of  reason ;  this  refined, 
Celestial  wealth,  stands  first  upon  the  roll — 
Drawn  from  the  heart,  and  quarried  from  the  mind  ; 
Should  heaven  bestow  no  more,  I'll  think  her  not  unkind. 

LVIIL 

"  O,  who  would  mourn  a  lack  of  other  treasure, 
Who  in  the  strife  for  gold  would  ere  engage, 
That  can  contrive  each  day  to  find  some  leisure, 
To  reap  the  wisdom  of  a  former  age, 
And  feast  the  soul  on  each  undying  page 
Which  genius  covered  with  her  words  of  fire, 
When  many  a  bard,  historian,  prophet,  sage, 
Gave  birth  to  thoughts  which  never  can  expire, 
Till  the  archangel's  trump  sounds  o'er  earth's  funeral  pyre  ? 

LIX. 

"  Who  can  be  poor,  when,  thronging  at  his  call, 
The  sons  of  genius  from  each  clime  appear  ? 
When  through  the  printed  page  he  gains  from  all 
The  garnered  treasures  of  each  studious  year  ? 
If  for  the  tribute  of  a  listening  ear 
Each  mind  yields  up  the  lore  God  gives  in  trust, 
Say — has  the  man  who  will  not  pause  to  hear 
Aught  that's  immortal  ?     No  !     Contempt,  disgust 
Would  banish  deathless  spirits  from  such  sordid  dust ! 


PARNASSUS.  33 

LX. 

"  The  honored  fathers  of  ray  country  died, 
And  dying  left  a  legacy  behind, 
For  which  the  world  in  vain  for  ages  sighed, 
And  sought  'mid  blood  and  tears,  but  could  not  find, 
For  clouds  and  darkness  brooded  o'er  mankind. 
The  glorious  heritage  of  freedom  !     France 
Awoke  and  saw — but  reeled  and  fell !     Her  mind, 
So  long  immured,  was  blinded  by  one  glance ; 
Reason  run  mad,  and  Freedom  fled — her  God  was  chance  ! 

LXI. 

"  The  priceless  legacy  of  Liberty  ! 
By  tyrants  banished  from  her  ancient  seats, 
Beyond  the  Atlantic's  wave  compelled  to  flee, 
Her  steadfast  followers  from  all  lands  she  meets, 
The  deep  dark  forests  yield  them  safe  retreats, 
And  though  pursued,  from  many  a  strong  hold  driven, 
Yet  with  her  spirit  each  brave  bosom  beats, 
And  victory  crowns  the  chosen  sons  of  heaven ! 
He  needs  no  other  wealth  to  whom  their  fame  is  given  !'' 

XLII. 

With  patriot  ardor  now  the  pilgrim  burned, 
His  feelings  rose  and  kindled  with  his  theme, 
He  seized  the  rude  rough  harp  which  he  had  learned, 
In  his  far  home,  upon  his  native  stream, 
4 


34  PARNASSUS. 

Without  the  aid  of  rules  to  wake,  and  deem 
Its  discord  music  ;  it  had  conspicuous  hung 
Across  his  shoulder  ;  how  his  notes  might  seem 
In  such  a  spot  he  thought  not,  but  among 
Its  strings  his  fingers  ran — his  voice  responsive  sung 

THE    PATRIOT'S    SONG. 

1. 
When  Albion's  haughty  rulers  thought 

To  bind  with  iron  bands  the  free, 
In  other  climes  the  Pilgrims  sought 

A  home  for  banished  liberty. 
Behind  them  were  their  father's  graves — 
Before,  the  stormy  ocean's  waves. 

2. 
The  "  May  Flower"  brought  the  choicest  seed 

That  Britain's  famous  isles  could  yield;  (*) 
An  unseen  hand  the  Pilgrims  led, 

The  God  they  worshiped  was  their  shield. 
They  hardly  touched  the  virgin  earth, 
When  lo !  it  gave  vast  empires  birth  ! 

3. 

The  dawn  arose  on  Plymouth  rock — 

A  glorious  harbinger  of  day  ! 
The  night  of  ages  felt  the  shock, 


PARNASSUS.  35 

And  fled  to  western  wilds  away. 
Retreating  still,  Pacific's  roar 
Will  soon  proclaim — "  It  is  no  more  !" 

4. 
How  like  enchantment  cities  sprung 

From  out  that  "  dark  and  bloody  ground,"  (2) 
Where  oft  terrific  war-whoops  rung 

W'ithin  the  forest's  depths  profound ! 
Where  red  men  kept  the  deer  at  bay, 
Or  wily  foes  in  ambush  lay  ! 

5. 

Upon  our  broad  and  noble  streams 
The  Indian's  bark  was  wont  to  glide, 

But  ah !  no  more  the  rude  oar  gleams 
Upon  the  gently  swelling  tide  ! 

No  more  by  summer  moons  they  lave 

Their  dusky  limbs  beneath  the  wave  ! 

6. 
Their  council-fires  have  ceased  to  burn 

Along  Atlantic's  sounding  shore, 
And  naiads  o'er  the  lakes  now  yearn 

In  vain,  to  hear  those  strains  of  yore, 
When  far  and  near  the  echoes  rung, 
And  maidens,  love — men,  war  songs  sung. 


36  PARNASSUS. 

7. 
One  wave  of  Time — alas  !  but  one  ! — 

Has  hallowed  with  their  dust  the  ground, 
And  left  us  nought  of  nations  gone, 

Save  here  and  there  a  funeral  mound  ; 
While  on  our  plains  the  arrow  head, 
Proclaims  the  prowess  of  the  dead. 

8. 
Why  should  we  pause  to  mourn  their  doom  ? 

Death  may  to  savages  be  gain,  (3) 
And  millions,  shouting  o'er  their  tomb, 

Declare  they  have  not  died  in  vain ! 
Who  that  beholds  our  altars  rise, 
Will  ere  lament  the  sacrifice  ? 

9. 

What  splendid  victories  were  our  boast ! 

What  laurels  our  brave  armies  won, 
When  Britain  sent  her  hireling  host 

Against  the  gallant  WASHINGTON  ! 
Tyrants  may  read  on  hill  and  plain, 
Freedom  ne'er  draws  her  sword  in  vain. 

10. 
War  came  once  more  with  gory  hands — 

Lo  !  where  yon  noble  vessel  rides  ! 
What  dauntless  spirit  now  commands, 


PARNASSUS.  37 

And  conquers  with  "  Old  Ironsides  ?" 
Death's  late  decree  can  nought  annul ! 
Must  I  reply — departed  HULL  !  (4) 

11. 
When,  where,  and  how  we  gained  renown, 

Who  fought,  who  conquered,  and  who  fell, 
On  sea  and  land  what  deeds  were  done — 

Do  not  our  glorious  annals  tell  ? 
And  does  not  every  school  boy  know 
How  JACKSON  triumphed  o'er  the  foe  ? 

12. 
O  may  our  laurels  green  remain  ! 

Our  banner  ne'er  o'er  recreants  wave  ! 
But  proudly  float,  without  a  stain, 

Above  the  free,  the  good,  the  brave  ! 
Nor  foreign  foes,  nor  civil  wars, 
Disgrace  its  stripes,  divide  its  stars  ! 

13. 
From  age  to  age,  till  Time  expires, 

Let  nought  occur  to  mar  our  fame, 
But  then,  as  now,  our  altar  fires 

Burn  with  a  bright  and  dazzling  flame  ! 
No  more — no  more  shall  Freedom  roam, 
She's  found,  at  last,  on  earth  a  home ! 
4* 


38  PARNASSUS. 

LXIII. 

The  pilgrim's  song  from  cliff  to  cliff  ascended, 
While  Echo,  bounding  from  her  rocky  cave, 
Caught  up  the  strain  ;  her  voice  with  his  was  blended, 
But  for  each  borrowed  note  she  many  gave  ; 
Then  all  was  still  and  silent  as  the  grave. 
Fearing  his  zeal  had  led  his  mind  astray, 
The  pilgrim  did  the  spirit's  pardon  crave" 
For  this  his  thoughtless  and  obtrusive  lay  ; 
When  passion  bade  him  sing  he  could  not  disobey. 

LXIV. 

The  spirit  smiled,  and  answered,  without  chiding, 
If  he  could  make  such  melody  below, 
There  was  but  small  occasion  for  his  riding 
The  famous  steed,  although  his  prospects  now 
Appeared  more  flattering  than  an  hour  ago ; 
"  You  have  no  gold— 'tis  well ;  such  cumbrous  freight 
Has  paved  life's  ocean  with  Hope's  wrecks.     But  thou, 
Perchance,  canst  Homer's  deathless  songs  translate, 
And  art  in  college  lore  and  parchment  honors — great  ?" 

LXV. 

"  Alas !"  the  youth  replied,  "  Greek  is  to  me 
What  to  blind  Homer  English  would  have  been, 
If  then  extant — a  hidden  mystery  ! 
The  venerable  walls  of  Yale  I've  seen 


PARNASStTS.  39 

From  the  first  dawn  of  childhood,  and  have  lain 
At  night  beneath  their  very  shadow  ;  they 
Have  often  served  the  purpose  of  a  screen 
From  the  hot  sun  ;  yet  there  escaped  no  ray 
To  change  the  darkness  of  my  mental  night  to  day.    > 

LXVI. 

"  A  thousand  times  her  graveled  walks  I've  trod  ; 
Arid  where  her  noble  elms  their  broad  arms  spread, 
A  thousand  times  reclined  on  the  green  sod ; 
And  gazed  as  often  on  the  stars  which  shed 
Their  radiance  upon  her  ;  o'er  my  head 
The  winds  have  passed  that  fanned  her,  and  her  sun 
Gave  me  its  light ;  in  nature's  book  I've  read 
From  off  the  page  that  opes  around  her  ;  one 
Material  world  all  have — the  mental  was  unknown ! 

LXVII. 

"  I  saw  the  tree  of  knowledge.     'Twas  to  me 
As  in  the  dawn  of  time  to  my  great  sire — 
Though  beautiful,  forbidden.     Being  free, 
He  ate,  and  sinned,  and  fell !     To  see — admire — 
And  feel  the  inward  workings  of  desire — 
To  gaze  for  hours — approach — and  touch ! — and  taste  ! — 
And  by  one  act  the  treasure  to  acquire, 
Was  what  all  men  would  do — so  did  the  best, 
And  Adam's  fall  the  frailty  of  the  race  expressed. 


40  PARNASSUS. 

LXVIII. 

"  I've  shared  his  doom,  and  felt  his  curse,  and  would 
Have  been  content  had  I  enjoyed  the  fruit  : 
'Twere  cheap  to  toil  for  such  ambrosial  food, 
Which  raises  man  above  the  groveling  brute, 
And  gives  to  dust  a  godlike  attribute. 
But  I  have  labored  for  my  daily  bread, 
And  if  of  knowledge  not  quite  destitute, 
It  is  because  a  few  chance  leaves  were  shed, 
Which  I  at  night  have  gathered,  and  upon  them  fed." 

LXIX. 

"  It  is  not  those  whose  minds  are  cramped  by  rules," 
Thus  to  the  pilgrim  now  rejoined  the  sprite  ; 
"  'Tis  not  the  cions  of  the  famous  schools, 
Who  climb  the  farthest  up  the  dizzy  height ;  (5) 
The  Muses  seem  to  take  the  most  delight 
In  those  on  whom  malignant  stars  look  down  ;  ( 6 ) 
Fortune's  spoiled  child  is  but  their  parasite, 
The  trencher-friend  of  genius,  and  the  tone 
In  which  he  sings  is  borrowed,  yielding  no  renown. 

LXX. 

"  Some  birds  when  caged  may  sing  and  seem  to  thrive, 
But  such,  if  free,  would  never  mount  on  high  ; 
Imprisoned  eagles  do  not  long  survive, 
Their  aspirations  reach  the  upper  sky, 


PARNASStTS.  41 

And  on  the  sun  they  gaze  with  longing  eye  ; 
When  heaven's  high  vault  they  can  no  more  explore, 
Their  proud  wings  droop,  their  lofty  spirits  die ; 
But  should  they  live,  their  glory  would  be  o'er, 
Transformed  to  barn-yard  fowls,  the  eagles  are  no  more. 

LXXI. 

"  Thus  genius  often  pines  when  college  bred, 
O'er  nature's  wide  domains  it  longs  to  soar, 
Hold  converse  with  the  stars,  and  fearless  tread 
Where  mortal  footsteps  never  trod  before  ; 
It  rears  its  altars  on  an  unknown  shore, 
From  whence  its  orisons  to  heaven  ascend : — 
Such  is  its  nature  ;  but  compelled  to  pore 
For  years  o'er  the  dull  linguist's  page,  and  spend 
Its  youth  and  strength  in  chains — it  finds  a  speedy  end. 

LXXIL 

"  Genius  is  freedom's  child,  and  like  its  parent 
Abhors  all  fetters,  and  ill  brooks  constraint ; 
As  in  its  nature  liberty's  inherent, 
In  college  halls  it  oft  receives  a  taint. 
Yet  gyves  and  chains  the  powers  of  some  augment — 
The  servile  neck  seems  fitted  for  its  yoke — 
But  read  earth's  annals — mark  the  eminent, 
Those  who  like  Shakspeare  sung,  like  Henry  spoke — 
Thou'lt  find  them  self-made  men,  storm-hardened  like  the  oak. 


42  PARNASSUS. 

LXXIII. 

"  Would  all  plants  prosper  in  one  common  soil  ? 
The  same  degree  of  moisture,  light,  and  heat 
Which  makes  one  flourish,  would  another  spoil ; 
And  the  amount  of  pruning  which  is  meet 
Perhaps  for  this,  would  be  for  that  too  great ; 
As  wide  diversity  exists  in  mind ; 
Who  trains  it  well  must  needs  discriminate, 
But  those  to  whom  this  duty  is  assigned, 
Treat  all  alike.     Are  not  such  mental  gardners  blind  ? 

LXXIV. 

"  Of  schools  and  colleges  and  books  deprived, 
Men  may  hive  wisdom  and  be  truly  learned  ;  ( 7 ) 
From  whence  has  human  knowledge  been  derived  ? 
Before  'twas  written  was  it  not  discerned  ? 
Untaught  mind  found  the  food  for  which  it  yearned — 
A  few  choice  crumbs  from  Nature's  boundless  store- 
No  mortal  yet  has  Wisdom  ever  spurned, 
Who  humbly  asked  admittance  at  her  door, 
And  all  the  sons  of  men  may  banquet  on  her  lore. 

LXXV. 

"  Locks,  bars,  and  bolts  were  broken  by  the  Press — 
That  power  which  gives  eternity  to  thought ! — 
To  learning  now,  all — all  may  have  access, 
The  poorest  beggar  need  not  live  untaught : — 


PARNASSUS.  43 

But  if  this  knowledge  were  more  dearly  bought, 
Would  not  the  treasure  be  more  highly  prized  ? 
Men  seem  content  to  read  what  others  wrote, 
Hear  with  their  ears,  see  only  with  their  eyes — 
Bowed  down  with  other's  thoughts,  O  how  can  genius  rise  ? 

LXXVI. 

"  Through  toil  and  fire  gold  struggles  into  life, 
In  worthless  ore  deep  in  the  mountain  hid  ; 
All  gems  (except  the  first  and  best — a  wife) 
Are  sought  for  long  before  they  are  espied, 
Diamonds  in  sand  and  pearls  in  ocean's  tide  : 
'Tis  thus  that  genius  often  lies  concealed, 
But  with  Herculean  arm  it  throws  aside 
The  portal  of  its  tomb,  arid  stands  revealed — 
In  native  vigor  strong,  untaught  to  bend  or  yield. 

LXXVII. 

"  Her  sons  alone  climb  up  this  sacred  hill, 
And  not  a  few  have  made  a  lodgment  there, 
Whose  deathless  strains  will  never  cease  to  thrill ; 
For  Time,  who  levels  mountains  and  makes  bare 
And  desolate  the  valleys,  can't  impair 
Their  melody ;  'twill  live  and  breathe  and  burn 
Forever !  Cheered  on  by  them,  let  none  despair, 
Sigh  o'er  their  fate,  for  college  honors  mourn  ; 
But  I've  one  question  more — pray,  wert  thou  nobly  born  ?" 


44  PARNASSUS. 

LXXV1II. 

"  In  what  this  mental  phantom  may  consist," 
The  youth  replied,  "  men  differ.     While  some  claim 
It  lurks  beneath  a  long  and  formidable  list 
Of  titles,  and  attaches  to  a  name, — 
The  others  smile  contempt,  and  cry  out — shame  ! 
Nobility  and  greatness  is  confined, 
('Tis  thus  by  far  the  largest  part  exclaim,) 
To  purity  of  heart  and  strength  of  mind, 
To  those  whose  acts  improve  and  elevate  mankind. 

LXXIX. 

"  Though  such  may  leave  behind  a  flood  of  light, 
A  father's  acts  descend  not  to  his  son,  (8) 
His  blood,  estate,  and  name  he  may  transmit, 
But  millions  reap  the  fields  which  he  has  sown, 
And  share  the  glory  that  his  deeds  have  won. 
Thus  when  at  eve,  in  robes  of  splendor  dressed, 
Behind  the  hills  retires  the  setting  sun, 
The  clouds,  its  offspring,  lingering  beams  infest, 
Then  darkness  covers  all,  but  the  green  earth  is  blessed. 

LXXX. 

"  Ere  memory's  mirror  or  the  plastic  mind 

Of  childhood  bore  a  father's  image — ere 

The  roots  and  tendrils  of  young  love  were  twined 

Around  a  father's  heart,  heaven's  doom  severe 


PARNASSUS.  45 

Transferred  his  spirit  to  a  happier  sphere, 
Leaving  my  helpless  infancy  bereft 
Of  the  kind  hand  that  should  sustain  and  rear  : — 
The  mother  of  his  babes,  thank  God  !  was  left, 
Though  bitter  was  the  cup  her  lips  with  firmness  quaffed. 

LXXXI. 

"  But  I  was  nobly  born — free  from  the  load 
Of  titles,  honors,  and  corrupting  gold ; 
*  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God' — 
Such  was  my  sire ;  at  least  so  I've  been  told, 
And  such  is  he  whom  I  in  dreams  behold 
And  call  my  father.     He  was  Vulcan's  son ; 
Hard  were  his  hands,  his  spirit  pure  and  bold, 
For  this  had  freedom,  those  had  labor  known : — 
My  mother's  sire  likewise  had  Vulcan's  bellows  blown." 

LXXXII. 

"  Hold  !  hold  !  enough  !"  the  spirit  loudly  cried, 
"  I  will  not  ask,  you  need  not  answer  more  ;" 
Then  with  a  voice  that  shook  the  mountain  side 
And  echoed  through  the  woods  like  the  loud  roar 
Of  distant  thunder — with  a  mystic  power 
That  made  rocks  tremble  like  the  fragile  reed, 
He  called  for  Pegasus.     Quick  from  a  bower 
Of  gorgeous  flowers  came  forth  a  fiery  steed, 
When  thus  the  spirit  spoke  and  bade  the  pilgrim  heed : — 


46  PARNASSUS. 

LXXXIII. 

"  This  Pegasus — Imagination — Fancy — (for  by  all 
These  names  the  famous  animal  is  known,) 
From  dangerous  heights  is  liable  to  fall, 
And  oft  the  rider  o'er  his  head  is  thrown : 
A  vagrant  steed !  to  useless  wanderings  prone  ! 
But  skill  and  strength  his  rovings  must  restrain, 
Else  for  neglect  defeat  will  soon  atone  ; 
Repentance  then  may  come,  but  come  in  vain — 
Man  can't  restore  the  past,  or  live  life  o'er  again. 

LXXXIV. 

"  The  whip  is  called  Ambition.     Rightly  used 
It  will  do  much  to  speed  thee  on  thy  way, 
Like  every  good  thing  it  may  be  abused, 
And  many  a  rider  it  has  forced  astray  ; 
On  Ruin's  rocks  their  mangled  bodies  lay, 
Far  down  the  precipice  of  Folly  ;  there 
They  will  remain  as  beacons,  while  Dismay 
With  ghastly  eyes  and  wild  disheveled  hair, 
Broods  o'er  the  scene  and  cries  with  loud  shrill  voice- 
Beware  ! 

LXXXV. 

"  Of  great  importance  thou  wilt  find  the  spur, 
There's  nought  like  this  to  make  the  courser  feel, 
But  those  who  use  it  peril  must  incur  ; 
'Tis  made  of  Passion — not  of  cold,  hard  steel — 


PARNASSUS.  47 

And  fires  the  blood,  and  makes  the  hot  brain  reel  : 
A  wise  discretion  should  control  its  use, 
But  placed  so  out  of  sight  upon  the  heel, 
The  spur  is  liable  to  great  abuse, 
And  then,  and  then  alone,  it  proves  most  dangerous. 

LXXXVL 

"  Reason  has  furnished  Pegasus  a  bridle, 
To  guide  his  wanderings  and  his  fire  restrain, 
Without  its  constant  use  'twere  worse  than  idle 
To  try  the  mountain  summit  to  attain  ; 
A  strong  firm  hand  should  hold  and  guide  the  rein, 
And  every  movement  of  the  steed  direct. 
Ambition,  passion,  reason — these  though  vain. 
And  impotent  for  good  alone,  effect 

Most  grand  results  combined — though  some  with  them  are 
wrecked. 

LXXXVII. 

"  All  must  expect,  while  toiling  up  the  steep, 
To  meet  ten  thousand  thorns  for  every  flower  ; 
Those  who  their  lyres  upon  the  summit  sweep, 
Have  nought  to  fear  ;  but  few  at  first  procure 
E'en  food  for  nature's  cravings,  and  endure 
Lean  hunger's  pangs,  the  wretchedness  of  want ;  (9) 
In  all  save  conscious  strength  and  hope  most  poor, 
The  pilgrims  with  resistless  ardor  pant, 

And  haggard  Famine  goads  them  up  the  steep  ascent. 


48  PARNASSUS. 

LXXXVIII. 

"  Lying  in  ambush  round  the  mountain's  base, 
Self-constituted  guardians  of  Parnassus  swarm,  (10) 
Debarred  from  joining  they  would  judge  the  race, 
And  all  to  their  ideas  must  needs  conform  ; 
When  armed  with  common  sense  they  do  less  harm, 
(This  useful  weapon  is  on  some  conferred,) 
But  many  a  youth  their  blusterings  alarm, 
And  some  who  might  Jiave  climbed  have  been  deterred- 
But  spur  thy  courser  on — bold  riders  are  preferred. 

LXXXIX. 

"  There  is  no  great  highway,  no  beaten  track, 
To  guide  the  wanderer  to  the  minstrel's  grot ; 
Of  scattered,  rambling  footprints  there's  no  lack — 
All  such  avoid — pass  on,  and  heed  them  not  : 
Who  tamely  follow,  wander  far  remote, 
And  never  reach  the  precincts  of  the  Nine, — 
Their  labor  lost — their  names  and  deeds  forgot — 
Their  tomb  an  empty  and  deserted  shrine — 
Oblivion  their  pall,  'neath  which  no  laurels  twine. 

XC. 

"  Seek,  then,  no  hackneyed  road,  avoid  the  throng, 
With  dauntless  courage  those  must  be  imbued, 
Who  strive  to  join  the  deathless  son's  of  song  : 
Pierce  the  dark  depths  of  deepest  solitude, 


PARNASSUS.  49 

Where  nought  to  mar  your  progress  can  intrude, 
And  make  yourself  a  path  amid  the  gloom  ; 
Self-taught  all  lurking  dangers  to  elude, 
The  frowning  precipice,  the  torrent's  foam, 
The  yawning  gulf  you'll  cross,  and  reach  the  minstrel's  home." 

XCL 

The  eager  pilgrim  paused  not  to  reply, 
But  thanked  the  spirit  for  his  counsel  sage, 
Then  tried  to  mount — but  Pegasus  was  shy 
Of  such  a  strange  and  uncouth  personage  : 
But  soon  its  timid  fears  he  did  assuage, 
And  from  the  saddle  bade  the  sprite  farewell : — 
Let  Time  the  gray-beard,  and  each  coming  page, 
Proclaim  the  secret  they  alone  can  tell — 
How  high  the  pilgrim  climbed,  and  what  at  last  befell. 
5* 


NOTES  TO  PARNASSUS. 


NOTE  1. — PATRIOT'S  SONG,  STANZA  2,  p.  34. 

"  The  '  May  Flower'  brought  the  choicest  seed 
That  Britain's  famous  isles  could  yield." 

Allusion  is  here  made  to  a  remark  which  I  have  often  seen  quoted, 
that  "  God  sifted  three  kingdoms  in  order  to  obtain  the  pure  wheat  for 
the  planting  of  America." 

NOTE  2. — PATRIOT'S  SONG,  STANZA  4,  p.  35. 

"  How  like  enchantment  cities  sprung 

From  out  that  '  dark  and  bloody  ground.' " 

The  phrase  "  dark  and  bloody  ground"  was  originally  applied  by 
the  Indians  to  Kentucky,  from  the  number  of  sanguinary  contests 
which  had  occurred  upon  her  soil.  No  reader  of  American  history  will 
question  the  propriety  of  its  application  in  the  text  to  our  whole  country. 

NOTE  3. — PATRIOT'S  SONG,  STANZA  8,  p.  36. 
"  Death  may  to  savages  be  gain." 

The  condition  of  the  Indians  in  the  world  of  spirits  forms  an  inter 
esting  subject  for  speculation  ;  but  as  the  truth  or  fallacy  of  our  ideas 
upon  this  subject  can  never  be  decided  in  time,  and  as  the  materials 
upon  which  to  ground  our  belief  are  so  scanty,  the  writer  confesses  his 
ignorance,  and  expresses  no  opinion.  Preferring,  however,  to  look  at 
all  times  upon  the  sunny  side  of  objects,  and  to  give  to  the  creations  of 
fancy  a  pleasant  and  agreeable  character,  he  only  expresses  the  hope, 
that  those  rude  and  unlettered  men  may  have  so  seen  the  Great  Spirit 
in  his  works,  and  hearkened  to  his  voice  as  it  came  with  sweet  incense 


52  NOTES    TO    PARNASSUS. 

on  the  breeze, — or  ascended  from  the  verdant  banks  of  the  winding 
river,  and  the  deep  bed  of  the  mountain  torrent, — or  shook  the  earth 
with  awful  sublimity  from  the  cloud — as  to  have  more  than  realized 
the  fond  dream  of  happiness  with  which  they  solaced  themselves  while 
living  ;  and  that  they  may  now  be  roaming  the  beautiful  banks  of  some 
celestial  river,  quaffing  joys  from  unfailing  fountains,  relieved  from  the 
necessity  of  guarding  against  the  white  man's  avarice,  and  avenging 
the  red  man's  wrongs. 

« 
NOTE  4. — PATRIOT'S  SONG,  STANZA  10,  p.  37. 

"  Death's  late  decree  can  nought  annul ! 
Must  I  reply— departed  HULL  1" 

These  lines  were  written  last  winter,  soon  after  the  intelligence  was 
received  of  Com.  Hull's  decease  at  Philadelphia.  As  I  could  not  refer 
to  all  who  distinguished  themselves  during  the  last  war  with  Great 
Britain  without  making  the  song  too  long,  I  have  merely  alluded  to 
Com.  HULL,  who  commenced  the  war  with  a  brilliant  victory  on  the 
ocean,  and  to  Gen.  JACKSON,  who  fought  the  last  battle  at  New  Orleans, 
and  achieved  a  victory  whose  brilliancy  is  unparalleled  in  the  history 
of  modern  war. 

NOTE  5.— STANZA  LXIX,  p.  40. 

"  Tis  not  the  cions  of  the  famous  schools 
Who  climb  the  farthest  up  the  dizzy  height." 

I  refer  to  HOMER,  the  greatest  poet  of  antiquity  ;  to  SHAKSPEARE,  the 
greatest  dramatic  writer  that  the  world  has  seen  ;  to  POPE,  who  is  with 
out  a  rival  in  the  field  of  didactic  poetry  ;  and  to  BURNS,  the  idol  of  his 
own  country,  and  the  admired  of  all  others.  I  believe  that  it  will 
generally  be  found  that  those  who  have  courted  the  muses  with  suc 
cess,  and  were  educated  at  the  universities,  have  looked  back  with 
disgust  upon  the  drudgery  of  college  life.  This  was  eminently  so  of 
BYRON,  and  what  its  effect  was  on  the  free  spirit  of  the  author  of  Par 
adise  Lost,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  the  last 
upon  whom  the  penalty  of  corporeal  punishment  was  inflicted.  The 
mode  of  training  and  the  studies  pursued  in  our  literary  institutions, 
may  be  serviceable  to  many,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  them  unfavora 
ble  to  the  development  of  original  genius,  and  not  adapted  to  the  intel 
lectual  wants  and  aspirations  of  the  poetic  mind. 


NOTES    TO    PARNASSUS.  53 

NOTE  6.— STANZA  LXIX,  p.  40. 

"  The  muses  seem  to  take  the  most  delight 
In  those  on  whom  malignant  stars  look  down." 

HOMER  and  MILTON  were  both  blind.  The  former  was  an  itinerant 
rhapsodist,  and  the  latter  was  for  some  time  a  schoolmaster.  At  the 
restoration  of  Charles  the  Second,  Milton  considered  his  life  in  danger 
and  remained  concealed  until  the  passage  of  the  "  Act  of  Oblivion." 
He  was  twice  married,  but  was  not  very  fortunate  in  his  alliances.  His 
first  wife  very  soon  deserted  him,  but  afterwards  returned  and  lived  with 
him  till  her  death.  POPE'S  life  was  a  continued  disease.  He  was  de 
formed,  and  always  suffered  from  great  bodily  weakness.  SCARRON,  a 
French  burlesque  poet,  having  appeared  at  the  carnival  of  1638  as  a 
savage,  his  nudity  attracted  the  attention  of  the  multitude ;  he  was 
hunted  by  the  mob,  and  being  compelled  to  retreat,  he  secreted  himself 
in  a  marsh.  "  A  freezing  cold  seized  him,  and  threw  him,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-seven,  into  a  kind  of  palsy  ;  a  cruel  disorder  which  tormented 
him  all  his  life."  "  It  was  thus,"  he  says,  "  that  pleasure  deprived  me 
suddenly  of  legs  which  had  danced  with  elegance,  and  of  hands  which 
could  manage  the  pencil  and  the  lute."  Balzac  said  of  Scarron,  that 
"  he  had  gone  further  in  insensibility  than  the  stoics,  who  were  satisfied 
in  appearing  insensible  to  pain  ;  but  Scarron  was  gay,  and  amused  all 
the  world  with  his  sufferings."  For  some  account  of  the  calamities  of 
RICHARD  SAVAGE,  who  was  dogged  by  misfortune  from  his  cradle  to  his 
grave,  the  reader  is  referred  to  "  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  British  Poets." 
AKENSIDE  was  a  butcher  till  the  age  of  twenty-one,  when  a  wound  pro 
duced  from  the  fall  of  a  cleaver,  confined  him  to  his  room,  and  led  him  to 
devote  his  time  to  study.  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  had  a  club-foot,  and  LORD 
BYRON'S  right  foot  was  deformed.  That  this  stimulated  his  lordship's 
literary  ambition  is  clearly  indicated  in  the  "  Deformed  Transformed." 

He  says : 

"Deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal- 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.    There  is 
A  spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  step-dame  nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune, 
And  oft,  like  Tiinour,  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them." 


54  NOTES    TO     PARNASSUS. 


The  author  of  Childe  Harold  was  also  unfortunate  in  his  marriage, 
for  his  wife  after  living  with  him  a  year  returned  to  her  father's  residence, 
and  he  saw  her  no  more.  These  and  other  calamities  which  might  be 
mentioned,  doubtless  did  much  to  make  those  who  experienced  them  the 
men  that  they  were.  That  which  appears  to  our  short-sighted  and  su 
perficial  minds  to  be  a  misfortune,  is  made  by  a  wise  and  overruling 
Providence,  to  minister  to  our  happiness  and  glory.  It  was  the  difficul 
ties  with  which  our  father's  contended — their  persecution  at  home,  their 
perils  upon  the  ocean,  the  wilderness  to  be  subdued,  the  tribes  to  be 
conquered,  the  rights  with  sleepless  vigilance  to  be  guarded,  and  the 
foreign  armies  to  be  captured  or  destroyed — that  enabled  them  to  lay 
the  foundations  of  an  empire  whose  free  institutions  and  unexampled 
prosperity  are  alike  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  world.  See 
note  9,  p.  56. 

NOTE  7.— STANZA  LXXIV,  p.  42. 

i 

"Of  schools  and  colleges  and  books  deprived, 
Men  may  hive  wisdom  and  be  truly  learned." 

The  lives  of  distinguished  men  abound  with  anecdotes  which  show 
what  vast  acquisitions  can  be  made  of  useful  knowledge,  under  circum 
stances  the  most  adverse,  and  difficulties  apparently  insurmountable. 
There  is  no  young  man,  whatever  may  be  the  obstacles  with  which  he 
is  surrounded,  that  may  not,  by  a  careful  improvement  of  the  scraps  and 
odd  ends  of  time,  become  truly  learned.  Let  not  the  laboring  man  sigh 
for  the  benefits  of  literary  institutions  which  are  beyond  his  reach.  Let 
not  those  whose  hands  are  hardened  by  the  honorable  toil  which  secures 
them  a  subsistence,  harbor  vain  regrets,  or  despair  of  satisfying  the  as 
pirations  of  a  mind  which  pants  for  that  wisdom  which  expands,  im 
proves,  ennobles,  and  elevates.  Those  err  exceedingly  who  suppose  it 
necessary  to  pursue  a  certain  prescribed  course  of  study,  under  the  di 
rection  of  a  chartered  coterie  of  distinguished  men,  within  the  classic 
walls  of  some  time-honored  institution,  in  order  to  secure  the  highest 
literary  attainments.  These  may  serve  as  valuable  auxiliaries,  but  they 
are  far  from  being  essential.  There  is"  no  mystery  about  the  thing,  but 
every  man,  in  college  or  out,  must  make  himself.  It  is  by  study — by 
mental  labor — by  "  the  sweat  of  the  brow,"  that  knowledge  is  acquired. 
On  the  printed  page  we  have  the  collected  observations  and  experience 
of  others  ;  but  with  no  book  save  the  book  of  Nature — with  no  guide 
but  reason — with  no  instructor  but  God — much,  very  much  may  be  ac- 


NOTES     TO     PARN7ASSUS.  55 

complished.  The  poorest  child,  however,  at  the  present  day  may  ob 
tain  books,  and  the  rudiments  of  education  ;  and  it  has  been  truly  re 
marked,  that  he  who  can  write  and  read,  and  has  a  knowledge  of  addi 
tion,  subtraction,  multiplication,  and  division,  may  learn  any  thing. 
The  greatest  linguist  of  this,  or  perhaps  any  age,  is  a  blacksmith,  who 
has  acquired  a  knowledge  of  some  thirty  different  languages,  though 
toiling  eight  hours  a  day  at  the  anvil ;  and  yet  he  has  not  passed  the 
meridian  of  youthful  manhood.  In  our  own  city,  ROGER  SHERMAN,  one 
of  the  illustrious  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  worked  as 
a  journeyman  shoemaker  after  he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age.  JAMES 
HOGG,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  learned  to  read  after  he  was  twenty  years 
of  age.  Dr.  HERSCHELL,  whose  discoveries  have  caused  his  name  to  be 
written  among  the  stars,  was  once  a  fifer  boy  in  the  British  army. 
GIFFORD,  who  was  for  several  years  the  learned  and  talented  editor  of 
the  London  Quarterly  Review,  was  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker,  and 
has  given  an  interesting  account  of  his  poverty  and  perseverance  ;  but 
I  have  only  room  for  a  single  sentence  ;  he  says :  "  I  had  not  a  farthing 
on  earth,  nor  a  friend  to  give  me  one  ;  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  therefore, 
were  for  the  most  part  as  far  out  of  my  reach  as  a  crown  and  scepter. — 
*  #  #  #  I  beat  out  pieces  of  leather  as  smooth  as  possible,  and  wrote  my 
problems  upon  them  with  a  blunt  awl ;  for  the  rest  my  memory  was  te 
nacious,  and  I  could  multiply  and  divide  by  it  to  a  great  extent."  Pope 
ADRIAN,  the  sixth,  was  the  son  of  a  barge  builder.  Being  unwilling 
that  the  night  should  pass  by  unimproved,  and  unable  to  procure  lights, 
he  was  in  the  habit,  when  a  boy,  of  availing  himself  of  the  public  lamps  at 
the  corners  of  the  streets,  and  in  the  porches  of  churches.  Probably  nine 
ty-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  the  distinguished  men  of  our  own  country, 
have  risen  from  the  depths  of  poverty  and  obscurity.  It  is  an  encoura 
ging  fact,  and  its  influence  will  tell  with  mighty  power  upon  the  destiny 
of  our  young  republic,  that  the  two  brightest  names  on  our  annals  are 
those  of  self-made  men.  The  one  with  only  a  common  school  educa 
tion,  baffled,  defeated,  and  captured  with  undisciplined  troops,  without 
money,  and  almost  without  arm§,  the  most  skillful  generals  of  the  most 
powerful  nation  in  Europe,  at  the  head  of  armies  elated  with  the  re 
membrance  of  former  victories,  and  confident  in  their  well  known  su 
periority  in  military  knowledge  and  experience,  and  in  all  that  consti 
tutes  the  sinews  of  war.  The  other,  a  mechanic,  who,  devoting  the  in 
tervals  of  labor  to  study,  acquired  an  earthly  immortality,  and  lived  to 


56  NOTES     TO     PARNASSUS. 

see  himself  ranked,  by  the  unanimous  consent  of  the  civilized  world, 
among  the  most  distinguished  philosophers,  statesmen,  and  sages. 

NOTE  8.— STANZA  LXXIX,  p.  44. 

"Though  such  may  leave  behind  a  flood  of  light, 
A  father's  acts  descend  not  to  his  son." 

IPHICRATES,  a  distinguished  Athenian  general,  who,  according  to 
Rollin,  "  is  ranked  among  the  greatest  men  of  Greece,"  was  the  son 
of  a  shoemaker.  He  first  served  as  a  private  soldier.  The  king  of 
Thrace  gave  him  his  daughter  in  marriage.  When  reproached  before 
the  judges  for  the  baseness  of  his  birth,  by  one  who  prided  himself  upon 
an  illustrious  ancestor,  he  replied  with  all  the  force  and  eloquence  of 
truth,  "  The  nobility  of  my  family  begins  in  me;  that  of  yours  ends  in 
you" 

NOTE  9.— STANZA  LXXXVII,  p.  47. 

"  But  few  at  first  procure 
E'en  food  for  nature's  cravings,  and  endure 
Lean  hunger's  pangs,  the  wretchedness  of  want." 

The  poverty  of  authors,  and  especially  of  poets,  is  proverbial.  After 
they  have  acquired  a  reputation,  (which  is  a  Herculean  labor  that  re 
quires  time,)  their  poverty  is  generally  the  effect  of  improvidence,  and  a 
want  of  worldly  wisdom.  But  I  ascertained  the  other  day  from  sources 
entitled  to  credit,  that  in  this  country  even  those  poetical  works  which 
are  applauded,  do  not  always  sell. 

OTWAY,  "  one  of  the  first  names  in  the  English  Drama,"  died  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-four,  "  in  a  manner,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  I  am  un 
willing  to  mention.  Having  been  compelled  by  his  necessities  to  con 
tract  debts,  and  hunted,  as  is  supposed,  by  the  terrors  of  the  law,  he  re 
tired  to  a  public  house  at  Towerhill,  where  he  is  said  to  have  died  of 
want ;  or  as  is  related  by  one  of  his  biographers,  by  swallowing  after  a 
long  fast,  a  piece  of  bread  which  charity  had  supplied."  Johnson  says, 
there  are  grounds  for  believing  this  account  of  his  death  incorrect,  but 
that  it  has  never  been  denied,  "  that  indigence  and  its  concomitant 
sorrow  and  despondency,  pressed  hard  upon  him."  PETER  CORNEILLE, 
a  great  French  dramatic  writer,  died  in  extreme  poverty,  though  his 
literary  labors  had  been  well  rewarded.  DRYDEN  wrote  to  live,  and 
supported  himself  by  his  pen.  GOLDSMITH  was  always  poor,  though  he 


NOTES     TO    PARNASSUS.  57 

received  large  sums  from  his  works.  He  was  improvident  and  addicted 
to  gaming.  Having  little  money  he  traveled  generally  on  foot,  and  be 
ing  something  of  a  musician,  he  frequently  initiated  himself  into  the 
good  graces  of  the  peasantry,  and  obtained  food  and  lodgings,  by  play 
ing  upon  the  flute.  When  SAVAGE  was  engaged  upon  his  first  tragedy, 
he  was  for  a  considerable  part  of  the  time  "  without  lodgings,  and  often 
without  meat ;  nor  had  he  any  other  conveniences  for  study  than  the 
fields  or  streets  allowed  him;  there  he  used  to  walk  and  form  his 
speeches,  and  afterwards  step  into  a  shop,  beg  for  a  few  moments  the 
use  of  the  pen  and  ink,  and  write  down  what  he  had  composed  upon 
paper  which  he  had  picked  up  by  accident."  He  died  in  prison,  where 
he  had  been  confined  for  debt.  CRABBE  went  to  London  in  1780,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six,  and  found  upon  his  arrival,  that  he  was  "  master  of 
a  box  of  clothes,  a  small  case  of  surgical  instruments,  and  three  pounds 
in  money."  He  was  soon  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  want.  He  spent 
all  his  money,  sold  his  clothes,  pawned  his  watch,  and  got  in  debt  to 
his  landlord.  He  applied  in  <a  fortunate  moment  to  Mr.  Burke — whose 
zeal  and  eloquence  in  the  British  House  of  Commons  in  behalf  of  our 
country,  during  the  controversy  which  resulted  in  an  acknowledgment 
of  its  independence,  has  rendered  his  name  familiar  and  sacred  to  the 
American  reader, — left  with  him  a  letter  and  some  specimens  of  his 
poetry,  and  being  unable  to  sleep,  spent  the  following  night  in  walking 
back  and  forth  upon  Westminster  Bridge.  Mr.  Burke  perceived  and 
appreciated  his  merit,  received  him  under  his  own  roof,  interested  him 
self  in  his  welfare,  and  through  his  influence  with  government,  obtained 
for  him  an  appointment  in  the  Church,  and  Crabbe  returned  in  1781  as 
Curate  to  his  native  Aldoborough.  BURNS  was  always  a  poor  man,  but 
being  an  expert  farmer,  was  never  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  want. 
LORD  BYRON  had  eight  or  nine  executions  levied  upon  his  property 
within  twelve  months  after  his  marriage.  The  above  may  serve  as 
specimens  ;  the  list  might  be  greatly  extended. 

NOTE  10.— STANZA  LXXXVIII,  p.  48. 

"  Lying  in  ambush  round  the  mountain's  base, 
Self-constituted  guardians  of  Parnassus  swarm." 

Fair  and  judicious  criticisms  I  would  by  no  means  condemn ;  but 
how  often  is  it  that  those  who  sit  in  judgment  upon  the  literary  labors  of 
others,  pass  by  unnoticed  a  thousand  beauties,  that  they  may  hold  up  to 
6 


58  NOTES    TO    PARNASSUS. 

contempt  and  ridicule  a  single  defect  ?  Such  men  would  blot  the  sun 
from  our  system,  and  leave  the  earth  and  its  fellow  travelers  through 
space  in  darkness,  because  by  a  nice  examination  dark  spots  are  dis 
covered  upon  its  disc.  No  human  production  is  perfect,  and  it  requires 
but  little  talent  to  discover  defects  in  the  writings  of  the  most  distin 
guished  authors.  Denunciation  is  within  the  reach  of  all,  and  to  many 
it  is  pleasant,  because  it  carries  with  it  an  air  of  superiority.  They  pro 
nounce  the  sentence  of  condemnation  with  a  dogmatism  equaled  only 
by  their  ignorance  and  want  of  ability  to  appreciate  true  merit.  It  fre 
quently  happens  that  critics  with  the  best  intentions  "  see  what  isn't  to 
be  seen,"  and  discover  defects  which  would  vanish  if  considered  with 
more  enlarged  views,  and  examined  with  optics  less  contracted.  A 
friend  in  reading  "The  Patriot's  Song,"  (p.  34,)  paused  after  reading, 

u  One  wave  of  time — alas  !  but  one ! 
Has  hallowed  with  their  dust  the  ground." 

"  Why  say,"  said  he,  "  'Alas  !  but  one '  ?  Why  is  not  one  wave  as  good 
as  more?"  And  when  I  replied  that  I  thought  it  a  melancholy  reflec 
tion,  that  man  was  such  an  insignificant  being  that  it  required  but  one 
wave  of  time  to  depopulate  a  continent,  he  said  my  answer  was  satis 
factory,  but  he  doubted  if  the  idea  would  occur  to  many  upon  reading 
the  song.  There  is  some  truth  as  well  as  poetry  in  these  lines  of  Pope : 

"  The  critic  eye,  that  microscrope  of  wit, 
Sees  hairs  and  pores,  examines  bit  by  bit ; 
How  parts  relate  to  parts,  or  they  to  whole ; 
The  body's  harmony,  the  beaming  soul, 
Are  things  which  Kuster,  Burman,  Wasse,  shall  see, 
When  man's  whole  frame  is  obvious  to  a  flea." 


THE   OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 


OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 


ANALYSIS.— A  moonlight  night  described.  The  Serenader's  Song.  Reflections 
upon  sleep.  The  Outlaw  discovered  sleeping  under  an  elm.  Short  sketch  of  his 
history.  The  gradual  approach  of  vice.  "The  Outlaw's  Dream."  He  visits  in 
imagination  his  home  beyond  the  Atlantic.  The  sunny  days  of  love  come  back  to 
him.  The  vision  changes ;  he  is  a  happy  father  and  his  children  are  around  him. 
Again  it  changes;  he  is  carried  back  ten  years  to  the  time  when,  being  about  to 
commence  life  for  himself,  his  father  gave  him  the  fruit  of  his  experience,  and  he 
recalls  to  mind  "The  Old  Man's  Counsel."  Dangers  cluster  around  the  path  of  life. 
Real  misfortunes  can  be  borne,  but  imaginary  troubles  are  as  boundless  as  the  crea 
tions  of  fancy.  The  imagination  can  also  amuse  us  with  ideal  happiness.  Evils  are 
blessings  in  disguise,  and  are  never  too  great  to  be  endured.  Afflictions  should  be 
borne  with  fortitude — hardy  bodies  and  free  spirits  nursed  among  mountains.  .  The 
violation  of  the  laws  of  his  nature,  the  cause  of  most  of  man's  woes.  Self  love. 
Virtue  preferable  to  vice  in  this  world.  All  our  appetites  and  passions  good,  if  not 
abused.  Woman's  worth.  The  origin  of  Love.  Reason  given  to  man  as  a  lamp  to 
guide  him,  and  should  be  used  freely  and  fearlessly.  Its  future  triumphs.  Man's 
comparative  insignificance.  His  future  progress.  Should  study  nature.  The  voices 
of  nature.  A  digression  upon  Great  Britain.  Her  conduct  in  regard  to  slavery,  the 
slave  trade,  China,  &c.  The  dream  resumed.  Nought  exists  in  vain.  The  ore  hill. 
Man  first  looked  upon  the  ocean  with  alarm.  The  ocean's  address.  Its  increased 
importance,  now  that  the  earth  is  peopled.  Inventive  genius.  The  silk  worm's 
homily  upon  death.  The  Outlaw  wakes.  His  resolution  to  reform. 


THE    OUTLAW'S    DREAM, 

OR 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 


"  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy."— BYRON. 


I. 

How  mild,  and  clear,  and  still  that  lovely  night ! 
The  envious  stars  retired — the  bright  moon  rose, 
And  bathed  the  city  in  her  mellow  light, 
Whose  beams  enhance  each  beauty  they  disclose  ; 
The  winds  were  soothed  and  lulled  into  repose  ; 
Hushed  was  the  voice  of  man,  and  beast,  and  bird ; 
But  in  the  distance,  where  yon  river  flows, 
The  water's  rushing  melody  was  heard — 
Blame  not  the  humble  bard  that  he  such  scenes  preferred. 

II. 

He  left  his  midnight  lamp,  then  dimly  burning, 
Alone  to  wander  through  each  silent  street, 
Until  Aurora  ushered  in  the  morning, 
And  bade  the  lingering  shades  of  night  retreat ; 
6* 


62  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

He  felt  those  charms,  so  holy  and  so  sweet, 
That  cannot  bide  the  light  and  noise  of  day, 
And  every  pulse  with  which  his  bosom  beat, 
Spoke  of  another  world,  and  seemed  to  say, 
There's  something  deathless  here  that  longs  to  be  away. 

III. 

On  earth,  and  air,  and  the  clear  sky,  seemed  graved 
A  voiceless  eloquence,  whose  hidden  power 
The  listening  soul,  but  not  the  ear,  perceived  : 
O  !  there  was  something  heavenly  in  that  hour, 
For  earth  too  lovely,  and  for  man  too  pure  ! 
The  world  awhile  appeared  to  lose  its  curse, 
And  man  seemed  bound,  like  an  immortal  flower, 
To  the  great  spirit  of  the  universe, 
And  with  unseen  exalted  natures  to  discourse. 

IV. 

How  great  the  change  a  few  brief  hours  had  wrought 
In  that  fair  city  !     Where  was  the  noisy  crowd 
That  filled  its  busy  streets  ?  the  men  who  sought 
For  wealth,  for  power,  for  fame  ?  the  poor,  the  proud, 
The  humble,  and  the  gay  ?     Where  was  the  loud 
And  joyous  laugh  of  youth  and  health  ?     All — all 
Were  gone  !    Had  Death  been  there?  and  was  his  shroud 
Those  pale  soft  moonbeams  ?  and  his  darkened  pall 
Those    shadows  ?     Where    were  the   ruins  ? — where   the 
mouldering  wall  ? 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  63 

V. 

No !     O  no  !     This  was  not  the  work  of  Death, 
But  of  Death's  kinsman — Sleep  ;  whose  throne  is  reared 
Above  earth's  surface — Death  has  his  beneath, 
But  from  above  his  subjects  are  transferred ; 
The  first  is  courted,  while  the  last  is  feared ; 
Their  powers  are  one  in  kind — not  in  degree  ; 
A  world  of  dreams  on  Sleep  has  been  conferred, 
But  from  all  dreams  kind  Death  will  set  us  free, 
And  yet  it  is  a  fearful,  solemn  thing  to  die. 

VI. 

Through  the  dim  vista  of  the  coming  years 
I  gaze  with  mournful  but  prophetic  eye  ; 
This  hallowed  spot  before  my  mind  appears — 
But  ah  !  how  changed  !  grief  blends  her  piercing  cry 
With  sorrow's  tears — but  ask — O  ask  not  why  ! 
The  sad  but  pleasing  stillness  is  the  same  ; 
One  solitary  stranger  I  descry 
Musing  o'er  ruins  then  without  a  name ! 
Palmyra,  Thebes,  Palenque — these  our  doom  proclaim. 

VII. 

That  night  their  fate  had  seemed  already  ours — 
So  deep  the  stillness,  such  the  shadowy  gloom — 
But  here  and  there,  where  deeper  darkness  lowers, 
The  dim  lamp  burns  within  the  sick  man's  room, 


64  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

In  whose  fast  waning  light  he  reads  his  doom  ; 
Some  struggling  rays,  from  curtained  window  seen, 
Declare  the  city  is  not  yet  a  tomb  : — 
O  grant,  great  God  !  it  may  unharmed  remain, 
But  if  Decay  must  come,  let  ages  intervene ! 

VIII. 

But  hark !     I  hear  a  strain  of  music  float 
On  the  still  air  like  the  glad  melody 
Of  heaven — list !  list !  it  did  not  seem  remote, 
Yet  now  'tis  gone  !     Mere  fancy  could  it  be  ? 
Or  has  some  captive  spirit  been  set  free, 
And  o'er  its  prison-house  commenced  its  song — 
Its  joyous  song  of  God  and  liberty  ? 
Sing !  heavenly  voyager — if  thy  spirit-tongue 
I  heard — 0  sing  thy  song  again !  its  notes  prolong ! 

IX. 

Perchance  some  spirit,  passing  in  or  out, 
A  moment  heaven's  high  portal  left  ajar, 
From  which  escaped  the  angel  chorus  shout, 
That  sounded  through  all  space,  from  star  to  star ; 
But  earth,  removed  from  perfect  bliss  so  far, 
Caught  the  last  echo  of  the  glorious  strain  : — 
O  !  if  our  world  would  not  the  music  mar, 
Leave,  ye  fair  seraphs  !  leave  the  door  again  ! 
Will  ye  not  hear  my  prayer  ?  and  must  I  cry  in  vain  ? 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  65 

X. 

But  hark  !  it  sounds  once  more  !  Through  shadows  dim 
And  dark  a  form  appears.     Let  me  draw  near. 
Human  it  seems  in  shape  and  size  and  limb — 
In  voice,  a  wanderer  from  a  higher  sphere. 
If  it  be  mortal,  what  has  brought  it  here 
At  such  an  hour  ?     But  list !  again  the  song 
In  notes  both  loud,  melodious  and  clear, 
Ascends  from  feeling  heart  and  amorous  tongue — 
Night's  pleased  and  listening  train  the  lover's  notes  prolong : 

THE    SERENADER'S    SONG. 

1. 
O  let  the  Muse  inspire  my  numbers, 

And  melody  her  aid  impart, 
For  she  that  o'er  my  head  now  slumbers, 
Has  twined  her  charms  around  my  heart. 

2. 
Sleep  on !  my  love,  kind  spirits  hover 

Above  the  couch  where  beauty  lies, 
Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  though  to  thy  lover 

Sleep  now  her  soothing  balm  denies. 

3. 

Love's  snares  are  hid  among  thy  tresses, 
Thine  eyes  have  caught  the  charmer's  spell, 


66  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

My  throbbing  heart  their  power  confesses, 
And  looks  proclaim  what  lips  conceal. 

4. 
On  ocean's  shore,  on  winding  river, 

In  forest's  depths  I  vainly  stray, 
Love's  gilded  chain  I  cannot  sever, 

Nor  drive  the  wily  god  away. 

5. 
That  form,  all  other  forms  excelling,  - 

That  voice  so  sweet,  that  face  so  fair, 
That  breast  with  truth  and  beauty  swelling — 

Where'er  I  roam,  they  haunt  me  there. 

6. 
The  darkest  night  has  naught  appalling, 

I  only  think  and  dream  of  thee, 
And  now,  though  chilly  dews  are  falling, 

They  feel  not  cold  and  damp  to  me. 

7. 
Tell  me,  fair  dreamer !  dost  thou  love  him 

From  whom  thy  charms  have  banished  sleep  ? 
Is  there  an  answering  heart  above  him  ? 

A  love  as  strong,  as  pure,  as  deep  ? 


67 


8. 
When  at  God's  throne  in  prayer  he's  kneeling, 

His  lips,  unconscious,  lisp  thy  name  ; 
Say — dost  thou  know  a  kindred  feeling  ? 

Does  thy  heart  burn  with  kindred  flame  ? 


9. 

0  who,  love's  tender  tale  confessing, 
Seals  his  devotion  with  a  kiss  ? 

O  who  is  fancy  now  caressing  ? 

His  name  would  make  or  mar  my  bliss ! 


10. 

Ye  guardian  angels,  0  assist  her  ! 

And  fan  the  sparks  of  love  with  flame  ! 
Ye  sylphs  who  oft  unseen  have  kissed  her, 

Write  on  her  heart  the  minstrel's  name ! 


11. 

Sleep  on,  my  love  !  kind  spirits  hover 
Above  the  couch  where  beauty  lies, 

Sleep  on  !     Sleep  on  !  though  to  thy  lover 
Sleep  now  her  soothing  balm  denies. 


68  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XL 

Tread  lightly  now — pass  on — and  leave  the  lover 
To  songs  and  sighs,  to  hopes  and  doubts  and  fears, 
Soon  will  his  golden  dreams  of  bliss  be  over, 
Lost  'mid  the  shadows  of  the  coming  years ; 
That  form  which  now  to  his  fond  eye  appears 
So  faultless,  pain  will  rack  and  old  age  bow ; 
That  flushed  and  laughing  cheek  salt,  bitter  tears 
Will  bathe  and  bleach  ;  perchance  love's  broken  vow, 
The  vow  of  him  that  sung,  may  make  those  fountains  flow. 

XII. 

Depart  ye  gloomy  fears  !  away  !  away  ! 
Sleep — ye  whose  dreams  are  joyous — O  sleep  on  ! 
And  quaff  hope's  sparkling  wine  cup  while  you  may  ; 
Bask  in  the  light,  enjoy  youth's  morning  sun, 
Nor  mourn  an  unknown  fate  ye  cannot  shun ; 
Despair's  dark  cave  leave  to  the  anchorite, 
Fear  not  the  darkness  ere  the  day  is  gone ; 
Remembrance  of  past  joys  will  be  your  light, 
When  long  and  lengthening  shades  declare  the  approach  of 
night. 

XIII. 

Mysterious  sleep  !  what  power  like  thine  can  bind 
Earth's  warring  thousands  in  one  welcome  chain  ! 
Round  bitter  foes  thy  fetters  now  are  twined — 
When  daylight  sets  them  free  they'll  war  again. 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.  69 

Thou  mighty  leveler  !   whose  strength  makes  vain 
The  lordling's  power,  the  wisdom  of  the  sage  ; 
The  rich  and  poor  alike  thy  aid  obtain ; 
And  cradled  infancy,  and  hoary  age, 

And  manhood's  strength,  are  thine  ;  thou  canst  each  grief 
assuage. 

XIV. 

How  sweet  the  traveler's  rest  at  day's  decline, 
When  pleasure  lures  him  to  a  foreign  shore, 
Or  pale  wan  cheeks  for  genial  climates  pine, 
Dreaming  their  faded  beauties  to  restore  ; 
Or  wisdom  tempts  him  with  her  priceless  lore, 
Or  fame's  loud  voice,  or  glory's  magic  wand, 
Or  the  bright  gold  which  Mammon  keeps  in  store, 
His  time,  his  talents,  and  his  life  demand, 

And  banish  him  awhile  to  some  far  distant  land. 

XV. 

On  grassy  hillock  rests  perchance  his  head, 
Beneath  the  branches  of  some  forest  tree, 
Or  downy  feathers  may  compose  his  bed, 
But  if  his  host  with  guests  is  crowded,  he 
May  thank  kind  fortune  for  a  hard  settee, 
For  soon  the  traveler  learns  in  any  place 
To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  though  unwooed,  Sleep  comes  with  welcome  face, 
His  wasted  strength  revives — he  lives  in  her  embrace. 
7 


70  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XVI. 

When  wild  Ambition  with  her  restless  fires 
Invades  the  youthful  heart,  and  to  the  brain 
A  frenzied  zeal  imparts,  that  never  tires 
If  but  a  ray  of  light  from  that  proud  fane 
Surmounting  Fame's  proud  temple  shall  remain — 
The  toil-worn  veteran,  in  his  morning  dreams, 
Forgets  his  woes,  his  poverty,  his  pain, 
While  round  his  name  a  deathless  halo  gleams, 
Inscribed  on  Glory's  page  with  Truth's  effulgent  beams. 

XVII. 

Fame's  clarion  notes  proclaim  at  last  his  worth, 
And  Fancy  wafts  the  praises  he  has  won, 
Each  rising  hill-top  and  each  vale  of  earth 
That  e'er  was  painted  by  a  genial  sun, 
Where'er  the  sea  has  bounds  or  rivers  run, 
His  name  is  treasured  and  his  deeds  are  told ; 
There  virgins  chant  the  praise  his  own  begun, 
And — such  the  printer's  art,  the  power  of  gold — 
When  numbered  with  the  dead,  his  "  Life"  is  bought  and  sold. 

XVIII. 

But  hush  !  who  have  we  here — unhoused,  alone, 
And  friendless  ?     Each  lone  bird  has  found  his  nest 
Each  beast  his  den — and  has  God's  image  none  ? 
On  the  damp  earth — it  is  his  mother's  breast ! — 


71 

He  finds  sweet  slumber  and  refreshing  rest, 
Who  in  more  prosperous  days  has  known  the  charms 
Of  polished  life  ;   whose  hands  the  noble  pressed, 
Whose  lips  the  beautiful !     Free  from  law's  alarms, 
The  OUTLAW  sleeps  in  peace  beneath  the  elms  broad  arms. 

XIX. 

All  bright  and  cloudless  rose  his  morning  sun, 
And  doting  parents  fondled  o'er  their  child, 
And  oft  and  long  they  talked  of  what  he'd  done, 
Repeated  all  his  thoughts,  crude,  strange,  and  wild, 
And  with  his  childish  sports  the  hours  beguiled ; 
Now  told  him  stories  of  the  olden  time, 
Then  with  grave  mien  and  solemn  voice,  but  mild, 
They  spoke  of  truths,  high,  holy,  and  sublime, 

And  bade   him  shun  the  flowers  which  hide  the  thorns  of 
crime. 

XX. 

He  grew  to  manhood  and  repaid  their  care, 
New  lustre  gathered  round  their  ancient  name, 
The  father  gazed  with  pride  upon  his  heir, 
Booked  for  promotion  on  the  rolls  of  Fame. 
Love  touched  his  heart,  he  wooed  a  high-born  dame, 
And  Love's  young  pledges  graced  his  cheerful  hearth  ; 
His  friends  were  powerful,  and  he  soon  became 
A  ruler  in  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 

His  talents  all  admired,  and  all  esteemed  his  worth. 


72  THE    OUT  LAW'S    DREAM, 

XXI. 

Blest  are  the  tenants  of  the  lowly  vale, 
Oppressed  and  wearied  greatness  oft  has  sighed 
For  unobtrusive  joys  which  there  prevail, 
To  those  who  tread  life's  heights  for  aye  denied. 
The  humble  barks  on  calm  smooth  rivers  glide, 
But  those  who  launch  their  ships  upon  the  sea, 
And  on  life's  mountain  wave  attempt  to  ride, 
Oft  spend  their  days  in  splendid  misery, 
And  few,  alas  !  escape  with  hearts  from  deep  guilt  free. 

XXII. 

Insidious  vice  !     How  treacherous  thy  approach  ! 
In  virtue's  robes  arrayed,  thy  stealthy  tread 
Excites  no  fear  ;  thy  proffered  hand,  whose  touch 
Pollutes,  we  grasp ;  by  thy  bland  witcheries  led, 
We  thoughtless  follow  where  around  lie  spread 
Thy  ghastly  victims  in  dark  ruin's  vale  ; 
Lured  by  thy  sorceries,  myriads  there  have  bled  ; 
And  O !  what  shrieks  the  listening  ear  assail ! 
They  rise  from  murdered  souls  !     It  is  their  dying  wail ! 

XXIII. 

Birds  with  gay  plumage  flower-decked  banks  attract, 
And  gentle  riples  mild  bland  breezes  kiss, 
Above  where  madly  leaps  the  cataract  ; 
Enchantment  reigns  ;  all  now  their  fears  dismiss 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN7S  COUNSEL.          73 

In  that  gay  bark,  which  floats  in  search  of  bliss ; 
Fast  and  more  fast  Hope's  gaudy  shallop  flies ; 
While  in  advance,  o'erarching  the  abyss, 
Bright  rainbows  beckon  with  their  gorgeous  dyes  ; 
Headlong  they  rush — they  leap — I  hear  their  dying  cries  ! 

XXIV. 

All  unsuspecting  was  the  Outlaw  drawn 
Within  the  influence  of  the  eddying  whirl, 
Whose  outward  circles  lead  to  depths  which  yawn 
In  dark  destruction's  vortex  ;  clouds  of  pearl, 
Bordered  with  gold,  above  were  seen  to  curl, 
Veiling  its  horrors  with  their  drapery ; 
Pride,  fashion,  luxury  their  victim  hurl  ; 
And  when  the  crisis  came,  compelled  to  flee, 
He  sought  in  western  wilds  to  hide  his  infamy. 

XXV. 

'Mid  artificial  wants  from  childhood  nursed, 
Taught  but  to  spend  the  wealth  that  others  earned, 
Unused  to  toil,  he  now  seemed  doubly  cursed, 
Pride  o'er  the  ruins  more  conspicuous  burned, 
And  passions  clung  to  him  whom  fortune  spurned. 
And  oft  his  heart  in  bitter  sadness  sighed, 
When  to  past  scenes  of  joy  fond  memory  turned, 
And  every  want  and  wish  was  gratified — 
Yet  was  his  sleep  less  sweet  than  now  by  high-way  side. 
7* 


74  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XXVI. 

Earth  is  his  palace — made  by  God's  own  hand  ; 
Its  dome,  its  lofty  dome,  the  clear  blue  sky 
Pillared  on  mountains  ;  the  mighty  power  which  spanned 
That  glorious  arch,  has  hung,  sublime  and  high, 
To  light  and  deck  its  deep  concavity, 
His  quenchless  lamps  ;  unnumbered  and  unseen 
From  point  to  point  his  watchful  spirits  fly, 
And  when  o'er  earth  Night  throws  her  sable  screen, 
They  guard  each  slumberer's  couch  on  hill  and  valley  green. 

XXVII. 

The  Outlaw  sleeps.     The  long  and  deep-drawn  breath, 
And  ceaseless  motion  of  his  beatino-  heart, 

O  " 

Alone  proclaim  'tis  not  the  sleep  of  Death  ; 
Life's  spark  is  hid  by  Death's  mild  counterpart, 
And  should  night's  messengers  to  us  report — 
Who  come  with  viewless  forms  and  noiseless  tread — 
What  made  the  sleeper  move,  and  turn,  and  start, — 
To  other  lands  they'd  say  his  mind  has  sped, 
By  roving  fancy  driven,  by  memory  fondly  led. 

XXVIII. 

I  thank  thee,  heaven,  for  sleep's  mysterious  power, 
That  throws  oblivion's  pall  o'er  present  woes, 
And  makes  us  all  forget  the  clouds  that  lower 
O'er  blasted  hopes  that  in  life's  morning  rose, 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.         75 

And  to  our  willing  eyes  again  disclose 
Scenes  that  the  past  had  curtained  from  our  view  ; 
While  voices  long  since  hushed  in  Death's  repose, 
And  once  familiar  forms,  and  hearts  most  true, 
Appear  to  live  again  and  former  joys  renew. 

XXIX. 

He  treads  once  more  the  hill-encircled  glen 
That  saw  him  ripen  into  man's  estate  ; 
"Unchanged  and  beautiful  it  seems,  as  when 
With  bounding  footsteps  and  with  heart  elate, 
He  roamed,  with  feelings  warm  and  passionate, 
By  murmuring  streamlet  glistening  in  the  sun, 
Where  beasts  retired  to  drink  and  ruminate 
When  parting  daylight  told  their  task  was  done, — 
For  through  the  pastures  green  the  clear  bright  waters  run. 

XXX. 

The  vision  changes ;  now,  in  feudal  hall, 
Adorned  with  relics  of  a  former  age, 
Where  deeds  of  valor  beam  from  storied  wall, 
And  nurse  the  pride  of  noble  parentage, 
He  sits  at  beauty's  feet ;  no  clouds  presage 
The  fearful  fury  of  the  coining  storm ; 
He  feels  love's  madness — gives  love's  solemn  pledge — 
Clasps  to  his  bosom  beauty's  peerless  form, 
Nor  dreams  his  touch  would  blast  and  wither  like  the 
worm. 


76  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XXXI. 

How  dear  the  cottage  where  his  children  dwell ! 
Their  childish  prattle,  and  their  sportive  glee ! 
What  transports  fill  his  mind  let  father's  tell, 
As  each  he  fondles  on  parental  knee  ; 
And  much  he  marvels  what  their  fate  may  be, 
When  Time  shall  roll  some  scores  of  years  away, 
And  they  are  rocked  on  passion's  stormy  sea  ; 
And  then,  in  dreams,  he  bows  himself  to  pray, 
That  they  may  grow  in  grace  and  all  God's  laws  obey. 

XXXII. 

There  where  the  maple  throws  its  grateful  shade, 
With  whitened  locks  and  countenance  serene, 
On  a  rude  seat  which  untaught  hands  has  made, 
His  father's  venerable  form  is  seen  ; 
And  though  Atlantic  rolls  her  waves  between 
The  happy  dreamer  and  his  distant  sire, 
And  mountains  frown,  and  murmuring  streams  complain, 
He  hears  those  tales  of  yore  that  never  tire, 
And  sees  life's  wasted  lamp  flame  up  with  youthful  fire. 

XXXIII. 

Ten  times  had  Autumn,  with  her  blighting  frost, 
Embrowned  the  fields  and  stripped  the  forests  bare  ; 
Ten  times  had  Spring,  regardless  of  the  cost, 
Left  here  her  mantle,  and  her  carpet  there, 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.  77 

That  she  the  seeming  mischief  might  repair, 
Since  sire  and  son  met  'neath  that  ancient  tree, 
The  one  to  hear,  the  other  to  declare 
What  he  had  found  the  world  and  men  to  be, 
With  all  the  strength  and  power  of  truth's  sublimity. 

XXXIV. 

Sleep  waved  her  wand — Time's  iron  grasp  relaxed, 
And  to  the  present  yielded  up  the  past ; 
Nor  as  at  other  times  was  memory  taxed, 
Not  now  reluctant  gave  what  she'd  amassed  ; 
As  from  their  graves  the  dead  shall  rise  at  last, 
Back  to  the  dreamer  buried  counsels  came  : 
Though  all  unseen,  the  mind  had  held  them  fast, 
And  now  a  spark  brought  out  the  latent  flame, 
And  these  forgotten  words  parental  lips  proclaim  : — 

XXXV. 

Thy  bark  is  launched ;   Hope's  fairy  sails  are  spread  ; 
The  bright  waves  sparkle  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  gently  murmur,  "  there  is  nought  to  dread ;" 
To  which  mild  winds  reply,  "  there's  nought  to  shun  ;" 
And  passions  lend  their  aid  to  urge  thee  on  ; — 
But  dangers  lurk  beneath  life's  ocean  tide, 
And  should  its  waves  declare  what  they  have  done, 
The  boldest  hearts  would  then  be  terrified, 
And  call  on  Age  for  counsel,  bid  Experience  guide. 


78  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XXXVI. 

I've  seen  the  humble  rise,  the  mighty  fall ; 
The  young  man's  folly,  and  the  old  man's  grief; 
The  half-starved  miser,  and  the  prodigal ; 
The  death  of  doubt,  the  sleep  of  firm  belief; 
I've  seen  each  form  of  joy,  and  known  them  brief; 
Heard  Woe's  loud  wail  ;  marked  Sorrow's  bitter  tears  ; 
Watched  Mercy  hovering  with  well-timed  relief, 
Soothing  man's  pain  and  quieting  his  fears — 
For  these  thin  locks  are  white  with  nearly  fourscore  years. 

XXXVII. 

I  would  not  wish  youth's  short-lived  joys  to  mar, 
I  would  not  cloud  the  brow  of  Hope  with  gloom, 
But  driving  Sorrow's  sable  train  afar, 
For  Mirth  and  all  her  smiling  crew  make  room  ; 
For  why  should  man  anticipate  his  doom  ? 
Or  why  should  present  ills  the  heart  appal  1 
This  earth  at  death  will  make  a  splendid  tomb, 
And  now  it  forms  a  glorious  banquet  hall, 
Where  Joy  with  light  feet  comes  when  youthful  voices  call. 

XXXVIII. 

Though  sad  and  grievous  are  life's  greatest  ills, 
Earth  has  no  woes  too  painful  to  be  borne, 
But  when  with  present  grief  pale  Fear  instills 
Her  poison, — then  the  bleeding  heart  is  torn, 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.          79 

And  direful  horrors  darken  our  sojourn. 
Misfortunes  have  their  limits  and  are  bound, 
But  if  imaginary  ills  we  mourn, 
On  sorrow's  boundless  sea  no  shore  is  found, 
And  torments  without  end  encompass  us  around. 

XXXIX. 

And  yet — bright  Fancy  ! — much  we  owe  to  thee, 
For  thou  canst  make  as  well  as  mar  a  world  ; 
Before  ideal  joys  how  sorrows  flee  ! 
Dismay  from  her  dark  throne  has  oft  been  hurled, 
When  Fancy  her  white  canvas  has  unfurled 
To  favoring  winds  ;  locks,  bars,  bolts,  shackles,  walls, 
Are  strong  as  fleecy  clouds,  or  smoke  that  curled 
And  vanished,  to  bind  the  soul,  which  nought  appals 
When  it  on  Fancy  and  Imagination  calls. 

XL. 

Hope  merely  gilds  the  darkened  form  of  fear ; 
With  golden  hues  the  death-frost  paints  the  leaf ; 
Mirth  grooves  the  cheek  for  Sorrow's  bitter  tear  ; 
Life's  still  smooth  sea  secretes  the  sunken  reef, 
And  every  joy  is  wedded  to  its  grief; — 
But  he  who  long  has  toiled  upon  the  plain, 
In  scaling  rugged  mountains  finds  relief; 
There's  not  a  cloud  obscures  life's  sun  in  vain ; 
For  joys  continued  pall,  and  pleasures  change  to  pain. 


80 

XLL 

How  strange,  mysterious,  wonderful  is  life ! 
Which  years  can  measure — aye,  and  fleeting  hours  ! 
Where  good  and  evil  wage  perpetual  strife, 
And  pain  deceitful  lurks  in  pleasure's  bowers. 
0  when  misfortune  o'er  thy  pathway  lowers, 
Be  cheerful — firm — he  resolute — be  true  ! 
Weak  minds  alone  adversity  o'erpowers ; 
The  loftiest  souls  that  glory  ever  knew, 
Were  cradled  in  the  storm,  and  nursed  where  tempests  blew. 

XLII. 

The  sheltered  vale  saw  not  the  eagle's  birth, 
Whose  aspirations  reach  the  distant  sun ; 
Who  looks  for  mental  or  for  moral  worth 
On  Ganges'  banks,  where  Niger's  waters  run  ? 
Ask  you  why  tyrants  should  the  mountains  shun  ? — 
Let  Switser's  cliffs — let  Scythia's  rocks  and  snow — 
Let  Affghanistan  tell  what  they  have  done. 
What  hearts  the  mountains  send  to  meet  their  foe, 
Long,  long  did  ancient  Rome — long,  long  will  Britain  know. 

XLIII. 

["  Could  thus  the  old  man  speak  so  long  ago, 
Before  the  Affghanistan  war  occurred  ?" 
What  foolish  question  !  dost  thou  not  then  know 
That  dreams  are  not  consistent  ?     What  I  heard 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN?S    COUNSEL.  81 

I  mean  to  state  correctly — word  for  word. 
Oft  what  seems  false,  ridiculous,  or  queer, 
If  rightly  viewed  would  not  be  found  absurd. 
Perhaps  the  father  was  some  holy  seer, 
Before  whose  piercing  glance  the  future  did  appear. 

XLIV. 

Perhaps  the  son,  the  eve  before  that  night, 
Had  all  the  details  in  the  papers  read, 
And  learned  how  bravely  mountaineers  can  fight 
For  liberty  ;  consigning  to  the  dead 
Their  foes,  and  filling  tyrants  hearts  with  dread, 
Who  view  their  trophies  on  the  bloody  plain — 
And  thus  to  err  unconsciously  was  led. 
I  paused  to  clear  myself,  and  to  explain, 
But  now  the  old  man's  counsel  I  resume  again.] 

XLV. 

God  has  affixed  to  matter  and  fo  mind 
A  code  of  wise  and  well-digested  laws  ; 
In  their  observance  man  alone  can  find 
His  highest  good  ;  in  their  neglect,  the  cause 
Of  all  his  wo  ;  but  Superstition  draws 
Around  the  mind  her  dark  and  misty  shroud, 
And  with  a  jargon  of  strange  sounds,  she  awes 
The  timid  and  the  weak — bids  these  shed  blood, 
Those  fast  and  vex  their  souls,  and  cry  to  heaven  aloud. 
8 


82  THE  OUTLAW'S   DREAM, 

XLVI. 

Man's  law  of  gravitation  is  self-love  ; 
No  human  breast  is  free  from  its  control ; 
No  principle  like  this  has  strength  to  move 
And  mould  with  unresisting  power  the  soul ; 
As  each  is  but  a  part  of  the  great  whole, 
Enlightened  self-love  leads  no  man  astray  ; 
When  from  the  path  of  rectitude  we  stroll, 
We  show  the  want  of  reason's  guiding  ray, 
And  self-love  learns  too  late  she  must  the  forfeit  pay. 

XLVII. 

Though  God  in  one  sense  is  the  cause  of  all, 
As  nought  had  ever  been  without  his  aid, 
The  worst  man's  acts  would  not  be  criminal, 
And  every  murderer  has  God's  will  obeyed, 
Unless  some  broad  exceptions  should  be  made. 
But  reason  as  we  will,  we  feel  and  know 
That  we  are  free,  and  cannot  heaven  upbraid. 
Does  man's  heart  bleed  ? — imprudence  struck  the  blow— 
And  if  our  misdeeds  caused,  reform  will  cure  the  wo. 

XLVIII. 

Who  go  beyond  their  depth  that  cannot  swim, 
Must  not  charge  God,  although  they  should  be  drowned 
Who  have  no  skill  to  climb  should  not  blame  Him, 
If,  when  they  try,  they're  made  to  kiss  the  ground ; 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  83 

And  yet  how  many  every  day  are  found, 
Whose  own  wild  schemes  have  left  them  in  the  lurch, 
Who  humbly  think  God  loves  the  good  to  wound, 
For  resignation  pray,  and  ask  the  church — 
But  though  God  may  apply,  he  does  not  cut  the  birch. 

XLIX. 

Desires  too  grasping,  phantoms  chased  too  far, 
The  calls  of  Pleasure,  the  demands  of  Pride, 
Neglect  of  Prudence  when  she  cries,  "  Beware !" 
Allowing  Passion,  although  blind,  to  guide, 
While  frugal  Industry  is  cast  aside, 
Will  plant  the  seeds  of  Want  in  any  place ; 
If  man  no  more  on  Fashion's  waves  would  ride, 
If  all  would  toil,  none  think  it  a  disgrace, 
How  rare  would  smiling  Plenty  hide  her  cheerful  face  ! 

L. 

Man's  woes,  my  son,  have  no  mysterious  birth — 
As  fire  base  gold  they  purify  and  prove — 
To  find  their  source  we  need  not  leave  the  earth, 
Explore  hell's  depths,  or  search  the  realms  above. 
Our  pains  are  voices,  which,  whene'er  we  rove, 
Like  some  kind  friend  admonish  our  return. 
These  bitter  fruits  upon  the  tree  of  love, 
E'en  if  we  could  it  were  not  wise  to  spurn, 
For  they  are  sure  specifics  for  the  ills  we  mourn. 


84  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LI. 

If  man  were  only  mortal ;  if  the  sleep 
Of  death  were  dreamless  ;  if  the  cold,  dark  tomb 
Through  endless  years  should  soul  and  body  keep 
And  the  archangel's  trump  ne'er  break  the  gloom 
That  gathers  there,  nor  quickening  ray  illume, — 
Yet  for  itself  vice  here  should  be  abhorred  ; 
Its  slightest  touch  can  wither  and  consume  ! 
Spurn  its  approach  !  its  soft  bland  voice  discard  ! 
And  learn  that  virtue  yields  on  earth  a  rich  reward. 

LII. 

Though  deep-dyed  villany  remain  concealed, 
Thieves  prowl  uncaught,  and  murderers  unhung, 
Yet  were  the  anguish  of  the  soul  revealed, 
Should  every  thought  but  tremble  on  the  tongue, 
The  living  rogue  would  envy  those  that  swung. 
For  Justice  follows  in  the  wake  of  sin  ; 
No  man  can  do  an  unrequited  wrong ; 
The  torments  of  the  lost  on  earth  begin ; 
The  sceptic  doubts  no  more — he  finds  a  hell  within. 

LIII. 

Our  appetites  and  passions  all  are  good, — 
He  is  their  author  who  makes  nought  in  vain — 
Their  calls  too  far  indulged,  too  long  withstood, 
Speak  their  complaints  in  restlessness  and  pain  ; 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN*S    COUNSEL.  85 

•  it; 

Reason  from  each  extreme  bids  man  abstain, 
Pass  not  the  joys  of  sense  untasted  by, 
Nor  give  those  fiery  steeds  too  loose  a  rein  ; 
Indulged  too  far,  all  guidance  they  defy, 
Disease  comes  on  apace,  and  sick  satiety. 

LIV. 

When  thou  dost  feel  love's  troubled  fountains  welling, 
When  for  his  own  love  thy  young  heart  shall  claim, 
When  like  a  stormy  sea  thy  breast  is  swelling, 
And  beauty's  glance  envelops  thee  in  flame, 
And  hot  desires  arise — 0  learn  to  tame 
And  guide  the  wild  delirium,  which  will  prove, 
When  unrestrained,  the  source  of  guilt  and  shame ; 
But  if  earth  boasts  one  joy  like  those  above, 
It  is  the  pure  and  holy  joy  of  virtuous  love. 

LV. 

Where  light  hearts  danced  till  night  was  lost  in  day, 
In  gay  saloons,  in  love's,  in  pleasure's  bower, 
Where  sparkling  wine  cups  chased  all  gloom  away, 
I  gazed  on  beauty,  and  I  felt  its  power  ; 
But  not  till  I  had  seen  misfortunes  lower, 
Was  woman's  worth  and  excellency  known — 
How  heavenly  was  her  influence  in  that  hour  ! 
Though  God  to  make  her  took  from  man  a  lone, 
Yet  when  he  formed  her  heart,  he  patterned  from  his  own. 
8* 


86  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LVI. 

O  rapturous  Love  !  mysterious  alchimist ! 
Deprived  of  thee  how  dark  the  brightest  skies  ! 
Nor  night,  nor  clouds,  nor  darkness  can  exist, 
If  o'er  the  soul  thy  radiant  glories  rise  : 
Some  call  thee  blind,  but  Truth  this  charge  denies  ; 
Thou  canst  more  beauty  and  more  charms  discover, 
Than  those  behold  who  have  the  best  of  eyes  ; 
None  see  by  day  as  sees  the  happy  lover, 
And  o'er  his  couch  by  night  what  blissful  visions  hover  ! 

t 

LVII. 

Ere  Eve  was  first  to  lonely  Adam  led, 
Nor  branch,  nor  leaf  adorned  the  parent  stem, 
God  gave  the  keys  to  Gabriel  and  said, 
"  Go  search  my  caskets,  crown,  and  diadem — 
Go  find  some  priceless  dower,  some  matchless  gem, 
Whose  dazzling  sheen  misfortunes  will  improve — 
Bring  me  a  gift  that  gods  would  not  contemn !" 
So  Gabriel  brought  the  brightest  gem  above, 
And  Eden  rang  with  joy — her  queen  was  crowned  with 
LOVE  ! 

LVIII. 

The  fruits  and  flowers  which  balmy  zephyrs  fanned  ; 
The  murmuring  streamlet  and  the  placid  lake  ; 
The  air — so  pure,  refreshing,  mild,  and  bland  ; 
The  golden  clouds  from  which  the  Father  spake, 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  87 

(Whose  voice  is  music,  though  the  devils  quake  ;) 
Elysian  groves,  and  birds  by  nature  taught 
A  melody  unknown  to  art — could  wake 
No  joy  in  Adam's  breast ;  all,  all  were  nought, 
And  had  been  e'en  with  Eve,  but  for  the  dower  she  brought. 

LIX. 

When  from  the  happy  garden  they  were  driven, 
Compelled  o'er  bleak  and  barren  wastes  to  stray, — 
When  sickness,  age,  decay,  and  death  were  given 
Because  God's  laws  they  dared  to  disobey, 
They  stole  this  priceless  dower  of  love  away, 
(Their  only  solace  in  their  banishment,) 
For  which  we  ought  to  thank  them  to  this  day. 
For  when  to  us  the  greatest  ills  are  sent, 
If  rosy  love  be  ours,  we  smile  and  are  content. 

LX. 

Within  thy  breast  beams  Truth's  unerring  lamp, 
Fear  not  to  guide  thy  footsteps  by  its  light, 
The  brand  of  error  it  will  often  stamp 
On  cherished  creeds,  and  actions  once  deemed  right  ; 
But  truth  must  triumph,  and  man's  mental  night 
Give  place  to  reason's  intellectual  dawn ; 
Her  searching  rays  will  put  to  speedy  flight 
The  clouds  which  now  obstruct  her  rising  morn, 
By  Ignorance  conceived,  of  Superstition  born. 


88  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXI. 

Ye  swift  revolving  years,  speed  on  !  speed  on ! 
For  in  the  womb  of  time  my  eyes  behold, 
Not  only  in  the  land  of  Washington, 
(Which  boasts  of  freedom,  but  where  men  are  sold, 
And  Truth,  affrighted,  trembles  to  unfold 
All  that  she  sees,  though  false,  and  learns,  if  new,) 
But  in  those  lands  denominated  old, 
Where  error,  earlier  sown,  more  vigorous  grew — 
The  triumphs  of  mankind  o'er  slavery's  hellish  crew. 

LXII. 

Look  at  yon  heavens,  my  son  ; — those  skies  contain 
More  worlds  than  our  sun  ere  had  rays  ; 
They  far  outnumber  all  the  drops  of  rain 
That  ever  fell  from  earth's  remotest  days 
To  ours ;  a  glorious  record  God  displays 
On  the  blue  sky,  which  angels  read,  and  lo ! 
The  vault  of  heaven  re-echoes  with  his  praise  ! 
But  ah !  of  God  how  little  can  we  know, 
Who  dimly  read  in  part  one  letter  here  below  ! 

LXIII. 

To  thee,  frail  man,  this  partly  read  seems  vast ! 
Thou  living  pebble  !  on  an  unknown  coast 
By  Time's  mysterious,  ceaseless  billows  cast ; 
And  yet  of  knowledge  thou  dost  vainly  boast! 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  89 

But  I  have  sometimes  thought — believed  almost — 
This  intellectual  aeron,  called  the  soul, 
May  one  day  rival  heaven's  unnumbered  host, 
When,  by  Death's  aid,  it  bursts  from  earth's  control, 
And  o'er  its  budding  powers  eternal  ages  roll. 

LXIV. 

Despair  not  then,  nor  think  all  knowledge  vain, 
The  bird  must  flutter  ere  it  learns  to  fly, 
Else  in  its  little  nest  it  would  remain, 
Nor  cut  with  fearless  wings  the  upper  sky. 
Man's  aspirations  reach  God's  throne  on  high, 
But  ere  he  mounts  he  first  must  learn  to  plod, 
And  oft,  while  plodding,  will  his  mind  descry 
The  glorious  footprints  where  Jehovah  trod, 
And  hear,  in  Nature's  voice,  the  harmony  of  God. 

LXV. 

Let  nature  be  thy  teacher — for  her  lore 
Ennobles,  elevates,  expands  the  mind ; 
Communion  with  her  will  improve  thee  more 
Than  ages  spent  in  converse  with  mankind  ; 
For  man  oft  errs  ;  debasing  passions  blind  ; 
Deep  prejudices  mingle  with  his  youth ; 
Pride  is  with  senseless  bigotry  combined, 
And  custom  makes  e'en  Virtue's  form  uncouth  ; 
But  nature's  crystal  fount  yields  nought  but  sparkling  truth. 


90  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXVI. 

Each  plant  that  greets  thee,  and  each  leafy  bower ; 

Each  tree  that  yields  or  proudly  stands  the  shock 

Of  warring  elements  ;  each  opening  flower 

That   blooms — droops — dies — like  hopes  which  cheer, 

then  mock ; 

Each  wave-washed  pebble  and  each  time-worn  rock ; 
Each  winding  river — ocean — valley — lake  ; 
Each  prowling  beast,  each  gentle  shepherd's  flock  ; — 
Whate'er  has  life,  whate'er  has  form,  will  make 
Those  better,  happier,  wiser,  who  their  counsel  take. 

LXVII. 

The  earth  is  full  of  voices  ;  they  declare 
Life's  mysteries — death— eternity — and  heaven  ; 
There  is  more  eloquence  in  viewless  air, 
Than  ere  to  Grecian  orator  was  given. 
Hark !  from  yon  cloud,  by  tempests  madly  driven, 
God,  throned  in  darkness,  to  his  children  cries  ! 
Awed  by  his  presence,  trees  and  rocks  are  riven, 
And  every  hill-top  to  his  voice  replies. 
Man  hears,  fears,  prays,  resolves — but  unchanged  lives  and 
dies. 

LXVIII. 

The  streamlet  murmurs  on  its  winding  way, 
A  moral  lesson  to  each  passer  by  ; 
Each  wave  is  vocal,  and  methinks  they  say, 
"  We  seek  the  ocean — thou  eternity." 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN?S    COUNSEL.  91 

The  leaf  when  withering,  speaks  to  every  eye 
Of  sickness — age — decay  ;  its  rustling  fall 
With  equal  plainness  tells  us  we  must  die : 
And  if  the  buried  seed  at  first  appal, 
We  joy  to  learn  in  spring  the  grave  can  disenthral. 

LXIX. 

The  fevered  brow  cool  zephyrs  gently  fan  ; 
They  ease  the  throbbing  temples,  and  allay 
The  restless  fire  that  through  the  system  ran — 
But  list ! — they  whisper  ! — list !  the  zephyrs  say 
"  Like  us,  poor  man,  thou  speed'st  upon  thy  way, 
But  know'st  not  when  or  where  the  flight  will  end ; 
To  us  thou'lt  yield  thy  breath  whene'er  decay 
Shall  to  thy  soul  a  safe  deliverance  send — 
For  with  its  native  dust  thy  cherished  form  must  blend." 

LXX. 

How  awfully  sublime  !  how  eloquent 
The  ceaseless  voices  of  the  mighty  deep  ! 
Terrific  grandeur  is  to  ocean  lent — 
Instinct  with  God  !  how  its  mad  billows  leap  ! 
What  thoughts  unutterable  o'er  the  wrapt  soul  creep ! 
Great  counterpart  of  Time  !  though  vast,  yet  bound — 
Ye  both  have  shores  'gainst  which  your  surges  sweep ; 
Each  wave  is  but  some  buried  nation's  mound, 
And  men  are  merely  drops  which  in  those  depths  are  found. 


92  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXXI. 

Parent  of  earth,  which  rose  from  out  thy  womb  ! 
Gigantic  highway,  joining  distant  lands  ! 
Within  thy  depths  empires  have  found  a  tomb, 
For  war — hell-born — has  marshaled  here  her  bands, 
Erecting  bloody  shrines  with  impious  hands. 
Here  met — fought — conquered — those  whose  star  is  set, 
And  temples— cities — buried  'neath  the  sands — 
Live  but  to  tell  how  they  God's  vengeance  met ; — 
Let  "  Ocean's  Queen"  beware,  for  she  may  feel  it  yet ! 

-•  •  * 
LXXII. 

[Land  of  my  distant  sires  !  thy  laureled  brow 
Is  dear  to  me  as  to  thy  children's  heart, 
And  every  throb  of  anguish  thou  shalt  know 
Will  pierce  my  bosom  like  a  poisoned  dart ; — 
Your  joys  are  mine — I  feel  of  thee  a  part, 
And  would  be  proud  to  claim  a  Britains  name, 
If,  with  her  wisdom,  power,  wealth,  science,  art, 
There  did  not  mingle  blood,  oppression,  shame ; 
And  nations  conquered — bleeding — chained !  marred  not  her 
fame.  (l) 

LXXIII. 

The  truly  good  alone  are  truly  great, 
There  is  no'  glory  where  the  heart  is  steeled, 
Fame's  laurel  wreaths  the  brows  of  those  await 
Who  mingle  mercy  with  the  power  they  wield, 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  93 

And  helpless  virtue  from  oppression  shield, 
And  guard  from  wrong  the  weak.     By  this  rule  tried, 
O  where  is  Albion  ? — her  damnation's  sealed  ! 
Her  standard  dazzles,  but  with  blood  'tis  dyed, 
In  war's  ambition  caused,  and  lust  of  power,  and  pride. 

LXXIV. 

And  yet  at  times  she  wears  meek  Mercy's  face  ; 
As  freedom's  champion,  shows  the  broken  chain 
Which  bound  the  negro ;  while,  to  her  disgrace, 
In  her  own  isle  white  captives  still  remain, 
And  fettered  millions  her  escutcheon  stain 
In  India  ;  aye,  and  heathen  altar  fires 
Are  fed  by  British  gold :   shrines  she'll  maintain 
Where  human  victims  bleed  ;  and  funeral  pyres, 
In  whose  ascending  flame  the  widowed  wife  expires ! 

LXXV. 

Say  you  'twas  great,  magnanimous,  and  just 
To  liberate  the  blacks  ?     Agreed  ! — agreed  ! 
But  why  not  raise  her  white  slaves  from  the  dust  ? 
Besides — she's  ruined  for  each  negro  freed, 
Ten  thousand  Chinese  with  one  cursed  weed ; 
And  now,  when  told  she  must  not  poison  more, 
She  vows  for  vengeance,  and  the  Chinese  bleed  !  (2) 
Her  floating  castles  line  the  crowded  shore, 
And  war's  red  demons  howl,  and  answer  to  their  roar 
9 


94  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXXVI. 

'Twas  policy  that  set  the  captive  free, 
Who  wore  his  fetters  in  a  distant  isle  ; 
Do  her  proud  rulers  shout  for  liberty  ? 
'Tis  but  to  blind  the  eyes  and  to  beguile 
Those  slaves  at  home  who  gnaw  oppression's  file 
And  wear  taxation's  grindstone.     They  the  friends 
Of  justice — mercy — freedom  ! — one  might  smile, 
But  sad  and  gloomy  thoughts  our  mirth  suspends — 

We'll  thank  kind  heaven  no  less,  if  few  such  friends  sh< 
sends. 

LXXVII. 

Think  not  ambition  ere  her  heart  corrodes, 
For  she  is  but  high  heaven's  avenging  rod  ; 
Her  deep-mouthed  cannon  at  the  antipodes 
Proclaim  to  heathen  ears  the  Christian's  God  ! 
An  efficacious  way,  though  somewhat  odd — 
Mohammed  tried  it  with  complete  success — 
If  captive  nations  tremble  at  her  nod, 
She  then  can  make  them  worship  idols  less, 

And  that  "  the  Prince  of  Peace"  is  God,  at  once  confess  ! 

LXXVIII. 

O  she  has  tears,  and  free  as  salt  they  flow, 
Her  tender  lords  at  Afric's  woes  have  sighed ; 
Who  doubts  her  mercy  surely  does  not  know 
That  off  that  sickly  coast  her  vessels  ride, 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN?S    COUNSEL.  95 

Armed  'gainst  the  slave  trade  ; — though  'tis  true  she  tried 
To  dictate  laws  to  nations  on  the  sea, 
And  search  their  ships  ;  but  one  at  least  replied, 
She  never  had,  or  could,  or  would  agree 
To  wear  Great  Britain's  chains  that  negroes  may  be  free. 

LXXIX. 

Wealth,  titles,  power,  her  priests  and  nobles  gain, 
They  share  the  plunder  of  oppressive  laws, 
These  their  estates,  and  those  their  tithes  retain, 
Whom  Wisdom  spurns,  and  all  save  vice  abhors ; 
And  when  her  starving  thousands  ask  the  cause 
Of  such  injustice — dungeons,  scaffolds,  guards, 
And  convict  ships  the  bravest  overawes  ; 
Power,  backed  by  force,  the  people's  voice  discards, 

And  thus,  while  Vengeance  sleeps,  she  Freedom's  march 
retards. 

LXXX. 

But  fate  ordains,  ere  Britain's  race  is  run — 
Though  brilliant,  exploits  strew  her  annals  o'er, 
And  many  well-fought  battles  she  has  won — 
Her  sons  shall  gain  one  splendid  victory  more  ; 
Not  'mid  the  clash  of  arms  and  cannon's  roar, 
For  though  severe,  yet  bloodless  is  the  fight ; 
By  slow  degrees  oppression  falls  before 
The  vigorous  arm  of  truth — God  speed  the  right! 

Till  Freedom  lifts  her  head,  and  basks  in  reason's  light. 


96  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXXXI. 

The  reader's  pardon  I  most  humbly  crave, 
My  roving  muse  has  wandered  far  away 
To  distant  lands  beyond  the  mountain  wave  ; 
I  know  'tis  rude,  uncivil  thus  to  stray, 
And  to  the  reader  quite  vexatious — aye, 
And  should  those  dear,  kind  friends,  the  critics,  deem 
My  artless  rhymes  worth  notice,  they  may  say 
I  am  no  poet ! — fearing,  not  for  fame, 
But  for  my  old  friend  Truth,  I  now  resume  the  dream.] 

LXXXII. 

Though  nature's  realm  is  boundless,  there  is  nought 
Exists  in  vain.     The  great  creative  Power 
Which  peoples  space  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 
With  rolling  worlds,  adorns  the  humblest  flower, 
And  for  the  short-lived  insects  of  an  hour, 
Prepares  bright  mansions  in  each  painted  leaf, 
Where  many  a  forest,  lawn,  and  shady  bower, 
Witness  their  loves,  their  joys — perhaps  their  grief — 
And  insect  sages  teach  their  dogmas  of  belief. 

LXXXIII. 

Go  mark  the  ore-hill  where  the  iron  sleeps — 
(Thus  genius  slumbers  in  the  untutored  mind,) 
How  worthless  seem  those  rude  and  shapeless  heaps  ! 
Who  there  would  search,  or  searching,  hope  to  find 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.         97 

Aught  that  could  bless  or  interest  mankind  ? 
Who  would  have  thought  that  unpretending  ore, 
When  purged  by  fire,  when  melted  and  refined, 
Would  serve  man  better,  and  improve  him  more, 
Than  aught  in  ocean's  depths,  than  aught  on  ocean's  shore  ? 

LXXXIV. 

How  oft  I've  wished  it  had  the  gift  of  speech, 
And  power  its  future  history  to  unfold, 
What  unique  sermons  would  the  ore-hill  preach  ! 
Stories  more  strange  and  wild  would  then  be  told, 
Than  those  by  genius  cast  in  fancy's  mould ; 
They  would  contain  the  record  of  our  race, 
And  O  !  what  changes  will  that  ore  behold  ! 
Should  we  in  it  man's  onward  progress  trace  1 — 
Or  will  he  end  his  course  in  darkness  and  disgrace  ? 

LXXXV. 

With  man  the  ore-hill's  history  is  begun, 
(Is  this  not  saying  more  than  mortals  know  ?) 
'Twill  still  exist  when  Time  his  race  has  run, 
And  not  a  trace  of  man  is  seen  below — • 
For  matter  seems  to  us  eternal ;  though 
Consumed  by  fire  and  wasted  by  decay, 
Yet  not  a  particle  is  lost,  as  chemists  show  ; 
If  Night  and  Chaos  should  resume  their  sway, 
This  humble  ore,  though  changed,  will  never  pass  away. 
9* 


98  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

LXXXVI. 

That  mighty  conqueror — remorseless  Death  ! — 
Who  blasts  the  bud  of  childhood  and  the  bloom 
Of  beauty,  with  his  cold  pestiferous  breath, 
Will  rest  his  bloody  scythe  in  years  to  come 
Upon  a  solitary  grave — the  last  man's  tomb  ! 
Behold  him  there  !  gaze,  not  with  looks  austere, 
Upon  God's  messenger !     He  has  now  made  room 
For  new  creations  ;  those  that  once  were  here 
Have  in  some  world  above  commenced  a  new  career. 

LXXXVII. 

And  those  who  dwell  where  man  before  them  dwelt. 
May  deem  that  earth  was  made  for  them  alone  ; 
But  some  may  feel,  as  I  have  often  felt, 
That  myriads  have  flourished  and  have  gone, 
Whose  destinies  and  natures,  now  unknown, 
Eternity's  vast  cycles  may  reveal ; 
And  some,  to  antiquarian  research  prone, 
Striving  to  break  eternity's  dark  seal, 
May  bid  the  wrought  and  scattered  ore  its  history  tell. 

LXXXVIII. 

We  know  not  what  is  great  or  what  is  small, 
We  know  not  what  has  been  nor  what  may  be. 
Our  fancied  knowledge  is  but  nominal, 
The  crude  imaginings  of  infancy  ; 


OR  THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL.          99 

On  man — on  earth — on  all  the  eye  can  see, 
Upon  the  present,  future,  and  the  past, 
The  hand  of  God  has  written — MYSTERY  ! 
We  catch  a  hasty  glance  and  stand  aghast, 
All  seems  to  our  dim  eyes  so  shadowy  and  so  vast. 

LXXX1X. 

How  oft,  my  son,  I've  mused  on  wave-washed  cliff, 
And  wandered  pensive  on  the  lonely  shore, 
And  gladly  learned  what  you  and  all  may,  if 
They  will  but  listen  to  the  ocean's  roar, 
For  it  has  taught  me  never  to  deplore 
The  apparent  ills  which  cloud  our  prospects  here, 
For  when  examined,  pondered  more  and  more, 
Though  now  concealed,  rich  blessings  will  appear — 
The  rainbow's  gorgeous  dyes  lie  hid  in  every  tear. 

XC. 

When  man  first  gazed  upon  the  blue  expanse, 
And  marked  where  sea  and  sky  together  blend, 
He  looked,  no  doubt,  with  rueful  countenance, 
And  little  thought  that  ocean  was  his  friend  ; 
He  saw  but  part,  and  could  not  comprehend 
The  vast  designs  of  kind  indulgent  heaven, — 
"  What  fearful  woes,"  he  cried,  "  does  God  intend, 
That  he  this  stormy  element  has  given  ? 
Methinks  it  were  enough  to  be  from  Eden  driven  !" 


100  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XCI. 

"  Impugn  not  heaven's  designs,  vain,  impious  man  !" 
'Twas  thus,  methinks,  the  billow's  voice  replied, 
"  Thou  art  but  breathing  dust,  and  canst  thou  scan 
God's  mysteries  ?     Can  Ignorance  decide 
On  Wisdom's  ways  ?     We  saw  thee  terrified 
When  thou  didst  view  those  monsters  at  their  play, 
Whose  bones  shall  deck  thy  daughters  in  their  pride, 
And  from  whose  heads  thy  sons  shall  find  a  way 
To  cheer  their  lonely  nights  with  light  like  that  of  day. 

XCII. 

"  Wer't  not  for  us  no  genial  showers  would  fall — 
The  world  would  be  a  lifeless  wilderness  ! 
One  vast  Sahara  ! — herbs,  trees,  flowers — all — all 
Would  droop — wither — perish!     Earth,  in  her  undress, 
Would  yield  no  fig-leaf  for  her  nakedness  ; 
No  more  her  mirrors  nature  would  require, 
And  lakes  the  mountain  vales  would  cease  to  press  ; 
Springs  would  be  dried,  the  thirsty  streams  retire, 
The  groves  sweet  music  cease,  and  man  and  beast  expire. 

XCIII. 

"  Our  depths,  like  some  great  store-house,  teem  with  food, 
And  hadst  thou  marked  with  care  the  ebbing  tide, 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  God  made  us  for  thy  good, 
And  ne'er  have  wished  that  ocean  would  subside  ; 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN*S    COUNSEL.  101 

As  through  an  open  door  thou  hadst  descried 
A  boundless  banquet-hall,  profusely  spread, 
With  fin  and  shell-fish  it  is  well  supplied, 
And  hunger's  cravings  there  may  be  allayed — 
On  more  ambrosial  food  the  gods  have  never  fed. 

XCIV. 

"  When  languid,  weak,  oppressed  by  summer's  heat, 
In  our  embrace  thou'lt  find  thy  strength  return  ; 
Fear  not  to  plunge  where  rolling  billows  beat, 
For  soon  thy  strong  and  sinewy  arms  will  learn 
To  stem  the  tide,  the  foam-crowned  crests  to  spurn  ; 
And  Eve  ! — fair  Eve  ! — O  never  fail  to  bring — 
To  whom  thy  heart  dost  ever  fondly  yearn — 
And  every  wave  a  song  of  joy  will  sing, 
If  on  our  yielding  breast  her  form  divine  she'll  fling. 

xcv. 

"  We'll  give  new  vigor,  change  life's  eve  to  morn, 
Impart  new  luster  to  the  speaking  eye,  (3) 
With  such  bright  hues  her  laughing  cheeks  adorn, 
That  wooing  winds  will  mourn  to  pass  her  by, 
And  make  the  wild  woods  vocal  with  their  sigh  : 
We'll  add  new  grace,  confer  fresh  power  to  please, 
And  give  her  strength — though  all  at  last  must  die — 
Against  the  secret  workings  of  disease  : — 
Then  mourn  for  us  no  more — thank  God  upon  thy  knees !" 


102  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

XCVI. 

Thus  spake  the  ocean — if  indignant,  mild — 
She  felt  much  grieved  at  man's  ingratitude, 
For  he  was  earth's,  and  earth  was  her  own  child, 
And  being  thus  allied  she  thought  him  rude, 
And  feared  her  grandson  was  not  over  shrewd, 
Else,  even  then,  she  had  dispelled  his  gloom, 
Though  earth  was  an  unpeopled  solitude, 
Where  fruits  untasted  fell,  unseen  the  bloom 
That  decked  the  virgin  soil,  unknown  its  rich  perfume. 

XCVII. 

The  world  has  changed  since  then.     Each  distant  shore 
Is  peopled  ;  and  the  rocky  isles,  which  lift 
Their  fearless  heads  where  mountain  surges  roar, 
Echo  the.  tread  of  men.     Unequal  thrift 
Explains  the  value  of  the  ocean  gift ; 
Where  commerce  spreads  to  favoring  winds  her  sails, 
Of  no  ennobling  art  is  man  bereft  ; 
Bold,  hardy  enterprise  that  never  quails, 
Refinement,  wealth,  power,  knowledge,  industry  prevails. 

XCVIII. 

Earth's  varied  fruits,  from  pole  to  central  line, 
The  ship's  return  displays  to  wondering  eyes, 
Minds  wake  to  life  long  sluggish  and  supine, 
New  wants  are  felt,  and  new  desires  arise, 


103 


Thus  industry  is  born  of  enterprise  : 
Inventive  genius  lends  her  ready  aid, 
The  power  of  steam,  fire,  water,  air  applies, 
To  move  the  vast  machines  which  she  has  made — 
The  elements  have  learned  her  will  must  be  obeyed. 

XCIX. 

Inventive  genius  !     Man  deprived  of  thee 
Is  but  a  houseless,  naked  wanderer ; 
The  pelting  storm — the  rude  inclemency 
Of  winter — Want's  lean  visage — the  rnad'ning  stir 
Of  restless,  warring  passions — all  concur 
(Where  trade  thy  latent  powers  have  not  called  forth) 
To  make  him  wretched.     Thy  value  we  infer, 
But  how  can  those  appreciate  thy  worth, 
Upon  whom  thou  hast  showered  thy  benefits  from  birth  ? 

C. 

Unsightly  clay,  beneath  thy  magic  touch, 
Is  shaped  to  usefulness  and  elegance  ; 
Such  is  thy  power,  thy  mighty  influence  such, 
That  rocks  and  forests  change  beneath  thy  glance 
To  rich  and  crowded  cities,  and  enhance 
And  multiply  life's  joys  ;  thy  great  machine 
For  peopling  earth  is  increased  sustenance — 
A  cheap  and  efficacious  way  I  ween, 
For  men  and  beasts  abound  where  waving  grain  is  seen 


104  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM, 

CL 

What  clouds  of  fragrance  load  the  passing  gale, — 
What  countless  blossoms  meet  the  raptured  eye, — 
What  merry  songs  our  listening  ears  assail, 
Although  no  human  beings  we  descry, 
From  those  rich  fields  beneath  a  southern  sky, 
Where  with  ripe  bolles  and  buds  the  cotton  teems  ;  ( 4 ) 
From  that  one  plant  invention  can  supply 
Commerce  with  wings,  the  printing  press  with  reams, 

And  clothe  the  world — lords,  peasants,  beggars,  arid  rich 
dames. 

GIL 

Impelled  by  charms  that  beam  from  beauty's  eye, 
Inventive  genius  robs  the  coffined  worm, 
Whom  nature  teaches,  when  about  to  die, 
The  undertaker's  duties  to  perform  ; 
Of  silken  tombs  she  makes,  and  fears  no  harm, 
Those  rich  and  costly  fabrics,  which  are  worn 
By  purity  and  grace  without  alarm ; 
Those  prize  the  coffin  who  the  tenant  spurn, 

And  death's  habiliments  the  beautiful  adorn. 

cm. 

Pause  !  pause,  my  son  !  amid  the  gay  dance  pause  ! 
And  as  your  eyes  those  silken  fabrics  view, 
Which  nourish  pride  and  gain  short-lived  applause, 
Hear  what  the  silk- worms  say  through  them  to  you, 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN5S    COUNSEL.  105 

Mark  well  their  words — I  know,  I  feel  them  true  : 
"  When  o'er  thy  form  death's  icy  fingers  creep, 
O  tremble  not  to  bid  the  world  adieu, 
Be  not  dismayed,  you  have  no  cause  to  weep, 
For  death  is  but  a  changing,  renovating  sleep. 

CIV. 

"  Not  unadvised  nor  lightly  speak  we  thus, 
Although  mere  worthless  insects  in  your  sight, 
In  some  things  ye  are  gods  compared  with  us, 
In  others,  man  is  but  a  neophyte, 
And  worms  can  teach  him  if  he'll  read  aright. 
Our  short  existence  is  to  us  as  dear, 
Its  smile  as  joyous,  and  its  hopes  as  bright, 
As  those  of  beings  in  a  higher  sphere — 
And  in  the  eye  of  heaven  all  may  alike  appear. 

CV. 

"  How  dark  the  prospect !  how  profound  the  gloom ! 
With  what  sad  thoughts,  with  what  forebodings  dire, 
We  closed  the  portal  of  our  silken  tomb, 
Forewarned  life's  waning  lamp  would  soon  expire  ! 
No  dervis,  brahmin,  magi,  priest,  or  friar, 
Stood  by  to  waft  our  souls  in  prayer  to  heaven, 
Yet  to  a  better  state  we  did  aspire, 
And  from  the  grave  these  beauteous  forms  have  risen — 
Death  took  the  old  away,  that  new  ones  might  be  given. 
10 


106 

CVI. 

"  In  our  brief  history  you  may  read  your  fate, 
And  every  lingering  fear  at  once  dismiss, 
You  are  what  we  were  in  our  larva  state, 
Man's  sarcophagus  is  our  crysalis  ; 
From  that  he  wakes  as  we  awoke  from  this, 
And  both  to  find  it  is  great  gain  to  die, 
More  perfect  bodies,  and  more  perfect  bliss  ; 
We  crawl  no  more,  death  gave  us  wings  to  fly — 
So  man  will  leave  the  earth,  and  range  the  upper  sky." 

CVII. 

Such  great  mysterious  truths  can  worms  declare ! 
Thus  God  reveals  himself  to  wondering  man ! 
There's  not  a  sound  that  floats  upon  the  air, 
Nor  leaf  nor  pebble  which  the  eye  can  scan, 
There's  nought  that  sunbeams  kiss,  or  wind-gods  fan, 
That  is  not  pregnant  with  its  homily  ; 
All  hymn  the  praise  of  earth's  great  Artisan, 
And  each  of  some  great  truth  contains  the  key — 
More  eloquent  than  words,  sublime  simplicity ! 

CVIII. 

O  list  their  counsels  !  list  their  teachings  high ! 
Life's  short  distempered  dream  will  soon  be  o'er  ; 
Improve  the  fleeting  moments  as  they  fly, 
For  time  once  squandered  nothing  can  restore  ! 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN'S    COUNSEL.  107 

Eternity's  vast  sea,  without  a  shore, 
Rolls  its  mysterious  billows  at  thy  feet ; 
There  the  fell  ghost  of  every  squandered  hour, 
The  tortured  soul  in  agony  must  meet, 
And  every  throbbing  pulse  with  deep  remorse  will  beat. 

CIX. 

Soon  I  must  bid  the  world  and  thee  adieu — 
Then  mark  my  precepts — mark  them  well,  my  son  ! 
Now  thou  art  kind  and  dutiful  and  true, 
Thy  earthly  journey  thou  hast  well  begun, 
And  nought  I'd  have  thee  do  remains  undone  ; 
But  should'st  thou  leave  the  harbor  and  the  bay, 
And  dark  clouds  gather  o'er  thy  rising  sun — 
Should  dangerous  currents  drive  thy  bark  astray — 
Recall  my  counsel  then — recall  it  and  obey  ! 

CX. 

With  sudden  start,  bewildered  and  amazed, 
The  Outlaw  broke  sleep's  mild  and  welcome  chain ; 
Around — above,  with  half-closed  eyes  he  gazed, 
And  strange,  wild  thoughts  shot  madly  through  his  brain  ; 
Though  sleep  has  fled,  her  visions  still  remain, 
The  doubting  mind  past  scenes  and  present  crowd, 
And  when  he  found  that  he  all  night  had  lain 
On  the  damp  earth,  sighs — heart-drawn,  deep,  and  loud, 
Proclaimed  the  anguish  of  the  high  born  and  the  proud. 


108  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM. 

CXI. 

The  truth — the  naked,  poignant,  bitter  truth — 
Like  some  sepulchral  light  upon  him  shone  ; — 
When  he  recalled  the  halcyon  days  of  youth, 
The  hopes  once  cherished,  joys  forever  flown, 
The  loved  ones  living,  those  long  dead  and  gone, 
Oppressed  and  humbled  with  remorse  and  shame, 
He  soon  resolved  that  virtue  should  atone 
For  past  misdeeds  and  forfeited  esteem — 
Thanks  to  the  Old  Man's  Counsel ! — thanks  to  th'  Outlaw's 
Dream ! 


NOTES  TO  THE  OUTLAW'S  DREAM. 


NOTE  1.— STANZA  LXXII,  p.  92. 

"  And  nations  conquered — bleeding — chained !  marred  not  her  fame." 

IT  is  indeed  a  melancholy  spectacle  to  behold  the  government  of  a 
professedly  Christian  people,  while  boasting  of  its  benevolence,  its 
magnanimity,  and  its  love  of  freedom,  instead  of  throwing  the  shield 
of  its  protection  over  the  weak  and  guarding  them  from  wrong,  annex 
ing  their  territories  to  her  dominions,  establishing  over  them  her  gov 
ernment  and  laws,  and  visiting  those  who  dare  to  assert  their  rights, 
and  to  rally  in  their  defense,  with  all  the  terrors  of  a  remorseless  and 
sanguinary  vengeance.     Far  removed  from  the  scene  of  action,  and 
the  facilities  for  obtaining  correct  information  being  so  scanty,  the  cit 
izens  of  the  United  States  have  little  conception  of  the  manner  in 
which  Great  Britain  has  prosecuted  her  designs  upon  the  liberties  of 
distant  countries.     Commencing  with  a  territory  inferior  in  fertility, 
and  hardly  superior  in  size  to  some  of  the  counties  of  our  magnificent 
States,  she  has  gone  rapidly  forward  in  her  career  of  conquest,  planting 
her  victorious  standard  in  every  part  of  the  world,  making  nearly  every 
hill-top  echo  her  battle-cry,  and  fertilizing  nearly  every  valley  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain,  until  she  is  now  able  to  boast  that  "  the  sun  never  sets 
upon  her  empire."     The  annihilation  of  one  of  her  armies  in  Affghan- 
istan,  and  the  successful  manner  in  which  those  hardy  mountaineers 
maintained  the  integrity  of  their  soil  and  the  liberties  of  its  defenders, 
have  revealed  more  effectually  to  the  world,  what  Great  Britain  con 
siders  a  sufficient  cause  for  war,  when  treating  with  those  whom  she 
deems  incapable  of  resisting  the  terror  of  her  arms :  for,  according  to 
official  documents,  she  ordered  her  troops  to_cross  the  Indus,  "  in  order 
to  expel  from  Affghanistan  a  chief  believed  to  be  hostile  to  British  in- 
10* 


110  NOTES    TO    THE    OUTLAW'S    DREAM, 

terests  /"  One  of  her  naval  commanders  has  recently  taken  posses 
sion  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  annexed  them  to  the  British  Crown. 
It  is  yet  to  be  seen  whether  his  government  will  sanction  conduct  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  every  principle  of  justice,  and  deprive  a  king 
of  his  throne,  and  a  people  of  their  independence,  who  have  been  raised 
from  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation,  and  delivered  from  the  darkness 
of  a  debasing  idolatry,  by  the  untiring  efforts  and  unsparing  liberality 
of  American  Christians  and  philanthropists. 

NOTE  2.— STANZA  LXXV,  p.  93. 

"  And  now,  when  told  she  must  not  poison  more, 
She  vows  for  vengeance,  and  the  Chinese  bleed !" 

This  was  written  a  few  days  before  intelligence  was  received  that 
the  Chinese  had  been  compelled  to  purchase  peace  by  an  acquiescence 
in  the  demands  of  her  invaders. 

NOTE  3.— STANZA  XCV,  p.  101. 

11  We'll  give  new  vigor,  change  life's  eve  to  morn, 
Impart  new  luster  to  the  speaking  eye." 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  in  this  country  so  little  attention  is 
paid  to  regular  and  frequent  bathing.  Most  persons  appear  to  think 
that  washing  the  face  and  hands  once  or  twice  a  day  is  all  that  is  ne 
cessary.  Regardless  of  health  and  comfort,  they  thoughtlessly  allow 
the  fifteen  square  feet  of  skin  with  which  the  body  is  invested,  to  be 
defiled,  and  its  important  functional  operations  interrupted,  by  the  col 
lected  impurities  of  many  years.  Of  the  two,  I  fear  that  the  ladies  are 
more  negligent  in  this  particular  than  the  men  ;  for  the  latter,  during 
the  oppressive  heat  of  summer,  generally  find  it  difficult  to  resist  the 
strong  natural  impulse  which  urges  them  to  seek  relief  by  plunging 
into  the  nearest  stream,  or  burying  themselves  beneath  the  waves  of 
the  sea  which  call  to  them  from  the  shore — while  a  questionable  deli 
cacy  withholds  the  former  from  sharing,  like  "  the  daughter  of  Pha 
raoh,"  (Exodus  ch.  ii.,  v.  5,)  in  these  primitive  luxuries.  Every  private 
dwelling  should  possess  facilities  for  bathing,  for  in  whatever  point  of 
view  we  consider  them,  they  will  be  found  to  be  of  nearly  as  much  im 
portance  as  the  kitchen,  and  far  more  useful  than  the  parlor.  Should 
the  "  French  Cook"  be  converted  into  an  officer  of  the  bath,  there  would 
be  less  occasion  for  cosmetics,  drug  shops,  and  doctors.  "  The  Gre- 


OR    THE    OLD    MAN5S    COUNSEL.  Ill 

cian  fiction  of  Venus  being  of  'ocean  born,'  is  typical  of  the  aid  which 
beauty  is  expected  to  derive  from  frequent  ablution  and  bathing." 
(See  Bell  on  Baths  and  Mineral  Waters,  p.  220.)  I  hope  the  day  is  not 
far  distant  when  all  our  towns  and  cities  will  be  supplied  with  large 
bathing  establishments,  built  and  maintained  by  the  "  powers  that  be," 
where  the  old  may  "  renew  their  youth  like  the  eagle,"  the  young  in 
crease  in  strength  and  stature,  the  robust  maintain  their  vigor,  the  sick 
regain  their  health,  the  weak  become  strong,  and  the  fair  add  to  the 
resistless  power  of  their  beauty,  and  the  matchless  grace  of  their 
charms.  If  it  were  possible  to  succeed,  it  might  not  be  expedient  to 
attempt  to  rival  the  magnificence  of  the  luxurious  Romans,  who  lav 
ished  upon  their  bathing  establishments  the  wealth  which  we  devote  to 
works  of  internal  improvement ;  but  for  a  comparatively  trifling  ex 
pense  we  may  have  all  that  is  essential  for  enabling  our  whole  popula 
tion  to  enjoy  the  advantages  of  frequent  bathing. 

NOTE  4.— STANZA  CI,  p.  104. 
"  Where  with  ripe  bolles  and  buds  the  cotton  teems." 

"  A  cotton  field  in  full  bloom  presents  a  scene  seldom  surpassed ; 
the  heavy  green  branches  waving  in  the  breeze,  and  disclosing  the 
beautiful  white  flowers  which  seem  to  peep  out  and  retreat,  as  if  too 
modest  to  bear  the  face  of  day,  while  their  fragrance  fills  the  sur 
rounding  atmosphere.  The  bloom  is  one  of  the  richest  flowers.  It  is 
large,  and  when  first  opening,  its  petals  are  of  the  most  delicate  white, 
mellowing  into  yellow.  On  exposure  it  becomes  tinged  with  red,  and 
passing  through  its  various  shades  to  a  deep  crimson,  is  shed  on  the 
third  day.  There  is  something  highly  pleasing  in  witnessing  the  cot 
ton-pickers,  and  perhaps  as  much  of  the  romantic  as  in  ordinary 
scenes.  The  first  time  I  saw  the  cotton-pickers  employed  was  just 
after  rising  from  a  sick  bed.  I  had  ordered  my  horse,  and  rode  to  the 
field  to  enjoy  the  morning  of  a  beautiful  September  day.  The  sun  was 
shining  splendidly,  and  a  gentle  breeze  from  the  south  was  playing 
among  the  tops  of  the  tall  green  cotton,  which  were  gracefully  bend 
ing  to  receive  its  salute.  I  had  seated  myself  in  the  refreshing  breeze, 
upon  an  elevated  ground,  and  was  admiring  the  beauty  of  tho  sur 
rounding  scenery,  when  my  ear  caught  the  first  note  of  one  of  the  wild 
songs  of  tho  negroes.  It  was,  as  is  their  custom,  commenced  by  one  voice, 
the  others  joining  in  the  chorus ;  and  the  sound  floating  along  the  field, 


112  NOTES    TO    THE    OUTLAW'S    DREAM. 

each  as  it  reached  him  joined  in  the  response,  mingling  the  varied  tones 
of  fifty  voices,  distributed  through  a  space  of  half  a  mile  ;  and  thus 
their  mellow  notes  advanced,  swelled  and  receded — dying  away  in  the 
distance ;  then  rising,  varying,  and  swelling  in  fuller  concert,  advan 
ced  up  the  field  to  die  again,  while  the  voice  of  the  first  alone  was  heard 
in  clear  distinct  sounds  at  the  far  side.  No  effect  of  vocal  music  can 
exceed  this  of  so  many  voices,  at  such  varied  distances  and  positions  ; 
and  when  they  are  completely  excluded  from  view  by  the  tall  cotton, 
not  a  living  object  seen — not  another  sound  heard — the  effect  may  be 
conceived,  but  not  described.  These  songs  continue  with  slight  inter 
mission  through  the  day,  and  tend  to  lighten  the  toil,  which,  though  not 
laborious,  is  constant  through  the  picking  season."  ANONYMOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


FAREWELL  TO  CONNECTICUT. 

WRITTEN   IN   PROSPECT   OF    A    TEMPORARY    ABSENCE. 

THE  time  draws  near — the  day,  the  hour, 
When  I  must  leave  the  scenes  around  me, 

And  absent  learn  how  great  the  power 

Of  those  strong  chains  which  long  have  bound  me. 

I  love  the  State  that  gave  me  birth, 

I  love  her  valleys,  streams,  and  mountains, 

I  love  her  for  her  sterling  worth, 

Her  rock-bound  coast,  her  clear  bright  fountains. 

I  love  her  soil,  rude,  rough,  and  wild, 

For  Freedom  here  her  chosen  rallies, — 

i 

Oft  Virtue  flies  from  climes  more  mild, 
From  richer  vales  and  broader  valleys. 

Her  winters,  long  and  piercing  cold — 

I  love  them,  and  I  love  their  rigor  ; 
They  make  men  healthy,  strong,  and  bold, 

They  give  both  mind  and  body  vigor. 


116  FAREWELL    TO    CONNECTICUT. 

Each  hallowed  spot  I  love  to  tread, 

Where  willows  bow  their  heads  with  weeping — 
Those  crowded  cities  of  the  dead, 

Where  friends  arid  foes  in  peace  are  sleeping. 

I  love  her  for  her  men  of  yore — 

Long  may  her  sons  their  virtues  cherish ! 

The  stars  from  heaven  shall  fall  before 
The  memory  of  their  deeds  shall  perish. 

I  love  her  government  and  laws — 

Such  wisdom  seems  not  man's  creation, 

And  oft  I've  thought  some  higher  cause 
Laid  broad  and  deep  their  firm  foundation. 

The  rights  of  all  are  here  secure, 

Religion  rests  her  claims  on  reason, 
No  purse-proud  lords  oppress  the  poor, 

Democracy  has  banished  treason. 

Wealth  is  enjoyed,  and  honors  worn, 

By  those  who've  strength  and  skill  to  earn  them  ; 
The  imbecile,  though  nobly  born, 

Get  their  deserts — the  people  spurn  them. 

I  love  the  men  who  till  her  soil, 

Their  moral  worth  and  habits  steady — 

God's  noblemen  !  the  sons  of  toil ! — 
When  duty  calls,  she  finds  them  ready. 


FAREWELL    TO    CONNECTICUT.  117 

Their  huge,  and  hard,  and  sun-burnt  hands 

I  love  to  clasp  whene'er  I  meet  them ; 
My  bosom  swells,  my  heart  expands, 

With  quickened  step  I  haste  to  greet  them. 

And  if  while  passing  on  my  way, 

I  chance  to  see  them  at  their  labor, 
I  like  to  pause,  if  but  to  say, 

"  Good  morning,  friend  !  how  are  you,  neighbor  ?" 

Thy  sons,  Connecticut,  are  shrewd  ; 

Quick  to  acquire  both  wealth  and  knowledge, 
With  varied  learning  they're  imbued — 

All  go  to  church,  and  some  to  college. 

To  question  others  is  their  right, 

Perfection  they've  attained  in  guessing, 
Though  friends  of  peace,  they're  bold  to  fight, 

When  flagrant  wrongs  require  redressing. 

They  roam  their  own  and  other  lands, 

They  spread  their  sails  on  every  ocean, 
Ingenious  minds  and  skillful  hands 

Are  seen  in  many  a  "  yankee  notion." 

A  noble  race  !  well  earned  their  fame  ! 

And  long  may  gallant  deeds  preserve  it — 
True  glory  lies  not  in  a  name — 

Great  actions  only  can  deserve  it. 
11 


118  FAREWELL    TO    CONNECTICUT. 

The  pleasant  farm-house  by  the  way, 
'Mid  vernal  shades  so  sweet  reposing, 

The  lowing  herds,  the  beasts  that  neigh, 
Their  owner's  thrift  so  clear  disclosing  ; — 

The  village  peering  from  the  glen — 

Where  hearts  are  trained  to  love  and  duty, 

Its  school-house,  built— no  matter  when, 
Its  neat  white  church,  its  rustic  beauty  ; — 

The  rural  cities  which  abound 

With  noble  men,  polite  and  civil, 
Where  wisdom,  health,  and  wealth  are  found, 

And  lasting  joy,  and  transient  evil  ; — 

All  these,  and  more,  I  fondly  love, 

On  memory's  tablet  deep  they're  graven, 

But  o'er  them  all,  where'er  I  rove, 

One  reigns  supreme — my  own  New  Haven. 

Her  streets  o'erarched  with  elms  are  seen, 
Her  dwellings,  neat  and  often  splendid, 

Have  yards  in  front,  and  space  between, 

Where  shrubs  and  trees  and  flowers  are  blended. 

How  dear  her  streams  and  spacious  bay, 

Her  two  twin  "  rocks,"  and  pleasant  wild-wood, 

Where  oft  in  youth  I  used  to  stray, 

To  spend  the  sunny  hours  of  childhood  ! 


FAREWELL    TO    CONNECTICUT.  119 

O  who  her  temples  ere  has  seen, 

Pointing  to  heaven  with  silent  finger, 
Her  upper  and  her  lower  "  green," 

Where  Eden's  joys  seem  yet  to  linger, 

And  has  not  wished  that  he  might  dwell 

Within  their  sacred  influence  ever  ! 
They  weave  around  the  heart  a  spell, 

Too  strong  for  ought  but  Death  to  sever. 

Her  mines,  for  gold  cannot  be  bought, 

They  yield  the  priceless  ore  of  knowledge  ; 

Much  he  that  sings,  although  untaught, 
Esteems  her  schools,  reveres  her  college. 

My  childhood's  home  !  my  native  State  ! 
Reluctant  I'm  compelled  to  leave  thee  ; 

0  should  I  half  thy  charms  relate, 

How  few  abroad  would  e'er  believe  me ! 

1  hear  sweet  voices  from  the  grove 

That  decks  the  plain  and  skirts  the  river, 
And  sigh  to  think  those  songs  of  love 
May  greet  my  ear  no  more  forever  ! 

Spring  now  adorns  her  fields  with  flowers, 

And  fragrant  zephyrs  gently  fan  me — 
O  blame  me  not,  ye  guardian  powers, 
If  parting  from  her  should  unman  me. 


120  FAREWELL    TO    CONNECTICUT, 

Connecticut,  bright  land  !  farewell ! 

The  bard  at  parting  fondly  loiters, 
His  pulse  beats  quick,  his  glances  tell, 

How  deep  and  strong  he  loves  thy  daughters. 

Men  far  away  will  wonder  why, 

When  all  around  is  joy  and  gladness, 

The  stranger  heaves  the  deep-drawn  sigh, 
Arid  o'er  his  soul  there  broods  such  sadness. 

0  could  their  minds  with  his  be  borne, 
And  could  they  see  the  gifts  and  graces, 

They'd  marvel  not  that  he  should  mourn 
For  yankee  forms  and  yankee  faces. 

In  other  climes  I  seek  not  wealth, 
Or  beauty's  smile,  or  tinseled  glory — 

1  seek  for  more — I  seek  for  health — 

Grant  it,  kind  Heaven,  I  do  implore  thee  ! 

And  when  I  cross  Potomac's  wave, 
And  reach  Virginia's  healing  fountains, 

Forbid  that  I  should  find  a  grave 

Within  her  plains,  upon  her  mountains. 

Day  yields  to  night,  alas,  how  soon  ! 

The  longest  days  are  quickly  ended, 
But  my  sun  wanes  ere  yet  'tis  noon, 

And  morn  and  eve  are  strangely  blended. 


LETTER    TO    HENRIETTA.  121 

Connecticut — again  farewell ! 

The  Queen  of  States,  there's  none  above  her ! 
What  pleasures  in  thy  borders  dwell ! 

Base  are  the  hearts  that  do  not  love  her. 


LETTER  TO  HENRIETTA. 

I. 

THOU  fairest,  happiest,  loveliest,  dearest  creature ! 

(O  do  not  frown,  'twill  not  improve  thy  looks,) 
I'd  thank  my  stars  if  I  could  oftener  meet  you, 

For  with  bad  grace  my  soul  thy  absence  brooks  ; 
'T would  be  so  fine  in  Scripture  style  to  greet  you, 

And  spend  with  thee  some  hours  I  waste  on  books  ; 
To  us  the  Apostle  says — (O  rapturous  bliss  !) 
"  Salute  each  other  with  a  holy  kiss." 

II. 
I  thank  thee  much  for  this,  good  father  Paul, 

The  command  is  good  if  rightly  I  construe  it, 
These  words,  "  each  other"  surely  mean  not  all, 

That  were  unpleasant,  and  the  old  man  knew  it ; 
He  spoke  to  "  the  elect" — (a  number  small,) 

I  "  elect"  you,  and  therefore  we  can  do  it ; 
And  none  I'm  sure  can  make  the  least  objection, 
It  can't  be  wrong  to  follow  Paul's  direction. 
11* 


122  LETTER    TO    HENRIETTA. 

III. 

But  vast !  hold  on  !  we  should  proceed  more  slowly 
When  quoting  Scripture,  and  be  grave  and  meek  ; 

In  that  same  text  you'll  notice  the  word  "  holy," 
By  which  we're  taught  'tis  wrong  to  kiss  the  neck ; 

We  should  confine  our  salutations  wholly 
To  that  most  pure  and  hply  spot — the  cheek  ! 

Of  course  allowing  for  mistakes  and  slips, 

For  if  'twere  dark  we  might  kiss  brows  or  lips. 

IV. 

Now  this  is  Scripture — 'tis,  although  I  say  it — 

If  I  speak  false  there  is  no  heat  in  coal ; 
Such  being  heaven's  command,  why  not  obey  it  ? 

Who  breaks  the  least,  'tis  said,  has  broke  the  whole  ; 

0  do  not  therefore  very  long  delay  it, 

For  though  you  save  your  face,  you  risk  your  soul ! 

1  never  set  up  for  a  theologian, 

Although  explaining  Scripture  like  a  Trojan. 

V. 

Man's  candle,  reason,  never  gives  him  much  light, 

It  only  serves  to  blind  a  fellow's  eyes  ; 
When  D.  D.'s  war,  mankind  may  see  a  crutch  fight, 

And  in  the  scuffle,  Truth,  disgusted,  flies  ; 
She  shuns  their  abstruse  wranglings,  lest  their  touch  might 

Pollute  and  mar — their  dust  and  smoke,  disguise  ; 
I  like  to  see  great  truths  discussed  with  skill, 
But  man's  belief  depends  not  on  his  will. 


LETTER    TO    HENRIETTA.  123 

VI. 

Though  some  are  starched  and  stiff  and  perpendicular, 

There  is  but  little  they  can  understand  ; 
I'd  like  them  better  were  they  more  particular 

In  following  each  simple  plain  command  ; 
A  man  may  be  for  doctrines  a  great  stickler, 

And  make  long  prayers — but  after  all  be  damned. 
Who  seeks  for  bliss  in  this  world  and  the  next, 
Must  practice  Virtue — and  obey  our  text ! 

VII. 

Speaking  of  Paul — I  must  confess  that  there  is 
One  thing  for  which  I  blame  him,  and  among 

So  many  truths,  one  error  can't  disparage 

Paul ;  the  pen  will  sometimes  slip  as  well  as  tongue  — 

Else  his  had  ne'er  denounced  the  rite  of  marriage ; — 
Were  he  alive,  Judge  Lynch  would  have  him  hung. 

I  sometimes  think  Paul  afterwards  repented, 

Or  else  to  kissing  he  had  not  consented. 

VIII. 
But  I  sat  down  to  write  a  billet-doux, 

And  not  to  preach  a  sermon  long  and  prosy ; 
The  last  is  sometimes  good  if  not  too  blue, 

The  first  is  always  plump  and  fat  and  rosy — 
At  least  it  should  be,  if  addressed  to  you  ; 

And  now,  if  you'll  be  merciful,  then  blow  me 
Provided  I  the  next  time  don't  do  better, 
And  fill  with  sentiment  and  love,  my  letter. 


124  LETTER    TO    HENRIETTA. 

IX. 

Greet  Nancy  for  me — lost  rib  from  my  side  ! — 
Alas  !  I  fear  I  ne'er  on  earth  shall  find  it ! — 

I  bade  the  north  wind  tell  her  how  I  sighed, 
And  how  vexatious,  cruel,  and  unkind  it 

Was,  when  she  could  have  called,  if  she  had  tried, 
To  stay  away  so — but  it  did  not  mind  it : 

Like  her  neglect  it  chilled  me  and  passed  on, 

But  left  a  wish  to  go  where  it  had  gone. 

X. 

Now  I  must  bring  my  letter  to  a  close, 

And  what  my  pen  has  written  reconnoitre  ; 

'Tis  hard  to  speak  or  write  farewell,  heaven  knows, 
When  its  addressed  to  Robert's  oldest  daughter ; 

'Twill  be  as  hard  an  hour  hence  I  suppose, 
Although  my  amorous  quill  delights  to  loiter  ; 

So  to  postpone,  though  not  avoid  the  pain, 

I  take  it  up  and  write  to  you  again. 

XI. 
That  this  might  have  a  fashionable  ending, 

I  was  about  to  write  that  "  I  am  yours," 
But  while  I  paused,  and  was  my  old  pen  mending, 

(Which,  if  inspired  by  you,  can  beat  Tom  Moore's,) 
Fear  her  dark  shades  with  rosy  Hope  was  blending, 

And  something  whispered — you  have  other  wooers 
Down  there  in  York — but  should  they  dare  to  touch 
Your  heart  or  hand,  I'll  beat  them  with  my  crutch ! 


LETTER    TO    HENRIETTA.  125 

XII. 

When  you  get  this,  you  must  at  once  indite  me 

A  very  tender,  loving,  long  epistle, 
While  I  meantime,  lest  Fear  again  should  fright  me, 

To  keep  my  courage  up  will  try  to  whistle  : — 
0  how  your  letters  and  your  notes  delight  me  ! 

But  hark  !  somebody  says — (why  don't  you  listen  ?) 
"  Had  he  as  many  hearts  as  Plutarch  lives, 
He'd  give  them  all  for  yours."     His  name  ? 

CHARLES  IVES. 

POSTSCRIPT. 
My  doctrine  and  advice  on  that  sage  text 

You  must  confess  is  orthodox  and  ample  ; 
If  you  regard  it  not  I  shall  be  vexed — 

How  great  the  sin  on  such  choice  pearls  to  trample  ! 
But  should  1  preach  in  vain,  when  we  meet  next, 

I'll  try  the  moral  power  of  good  example  :  — 
Till  then,  while  hoping  you  may  be  as  true 
As  beautiful  and  fair,  I  sigh — adieu. 


TO  EMMA. 

THOUGH  long  the  time  since  last  we  met, 
There  is  a  spell  that  lingers  yet, 
Like  daylight  when  the  sun  is  set ; 

For  charms  more  strong 
And  potent  than  the  amulet, 

To  thee  belong. 

When  I  at  night  my  vigils  keep, 
A  stranger  to  the  power  of  sleep, 
I  feel  their  influence  o'er  me  creep 

Beyond  control ; 
As  fierce  winds  move  the  mighty  deep, 

They  move  my  soul. 

And  when  tired  nature  seeks  repose, 
If  sleep  perchance  my  eyelids  close, 
Imagined  bliss  dispels  my  woes  ; 

A  voice  divine 
Is  whispering  love — my  fancy  glows — 

I  wake — 'twas  thine  ! 


TO    EMMA.  127 

Mysterious  Love  !  thou  child  of  heaven  ! 
To  mortals  lent,  to  angels  given, 
Methinks  you  must  have  been  hard  driven 

For  want  of  game, 
Or  else  my  heart  had  ne'er  been  riven 

While  I'm  so  lame. 

0  cruel  Love  !  thou  art  unkind ! 
For  well  you  knew  I  ne'er  could  find 
A  kindred  flame  'mong  womankind — 

They  hate  a  crutch  ; 

Why  draw  your  bow  when  you're  so  blind  ? 
I  blame  thee  much. 

The  choicest  flowers  should  Friendship  bring, 
The  sweetest  song  should  Pity  sing, 
If  Sympathy  should  o'er  me  fling 

A  balm  from  heaven, 
It  would  assuage,  not  cure  die  sting 

By  Cupid  given. 

But  if,  perchance,  some  future  day, 

1  throw  my  crutches  all  away — 
And  'tis  for  this,  great  God  !  I  pray — 

The  wound  I'll  cherish ; 
And  Emma,  with  her  eyes  of  gray, 
I'll or ! 


128  LINES. 

I  am  awake  !     I  do  not  dream ! 
I  ask  for  nought  but  your  esteem  ; 
To  ask  for  more  would  madness  seem 

In  my  condition, 
Yet  Hope  does  o'er  my  darkness  gleam — 

Soon  may  fruition ! 


LINES  INSPIRED  BY  SOME  RHEUMATIC  TWITCHES, 

YE  powers  above !  ye  foes  to  evil ! 
And  can  ye  say  ye  treat  me  civil, 
Thus  to  look  on  while  Mr.  Devil 

Torments  me  so  ? 
Stretch  forth  your  arms  and  lay  him  level ! 

You  can,  I  know. 

If  suffering  can  atone  for  sin, 

I've  paid  the  debts  of  all  my  kin — 

All  who  are  now,  may  be,  have  been ; 

Let  them  away 
When  heaven's  gates  ope,  and  walk  right  in — 

They've  nought  to  pay. 


TO  REBECCA. 


WRITTEN  UPON  THE    RECEIPT  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOQUET,  WHICH  WAS   ACCOMPANIED 
WITH  THE  CHEERING  LACONISM — "  NEVER  DESPAIR." 


I  HASTE  to  thank  thee  for  thy  flowers, 
For  they  will  cheer  me  in  my  sadness, 

And  fill  my  solitary  hours 

With  fond  delight,  with  joy,  with  gladness  ; 

For  oft,  as  I  shall  turn  to  view  them, 

Methinks  I'll  see  the  spirit  fair, 
That  watched  their  growth  ere  yet  I  knew  them, 

And  told  me  "  never  to  despair." 

O  could  I  make  these  flowers  immortal, 
Their  beauty  ne'er  should  know  decay, 

And  when  I  crossed  that  happy  portal 
Whence  sin  and  sorrow  shrink  away, 

I'd  bear  them  with  me — on  my  breast — 

A  loved  memento  of  the  giver, 
And  could  I  find  her  place  of  rest, 

We'd  breathe  their  fragrance  there  forever. 
12 


TO  CLARISSA— A  VALENTINE. 

LIST  !  list  to  those  sounds  which  the  soft  zephyrs  bring, 

From  valley  and  mountain  and  lawn ; 
'Tis  the  loud  nuptial  song  which  the  joyful  birds  sing, 

When  two  have  been  changed  into  one. 

The  example  they  set  would  be  followed  by  me, 

But  ah !  I  am  bound  by  a  chain ; 
Besides,  if  perchance  we  should  not  well  agree, 

No  power  could  divide  us  again. 

But  birds  are  not  trameled  by  old  musty  laws, 

They  never  consider  it  queer, 
If  those  who  have  differed,  from  whatever  cause. 

Select  other  mates  the  next  year. 

Mankind,  in  their  folly,  get  tied  up  for  life, 

The  knot  none  but  death  can  e'er  sever, 
Though  banished  each  joy,  though  they  "  war  to  the  knife,' 

Though  peace  has  departed  forever. 

Should  Love  on  thy  chains  leave  the  stamp  of  his  seal, 
To  be  bound  were  the  summit  of  bliss, — 

Though  a  thousand  times  stronger  than  iron  or  steel, 
I'd  welcome  thy  fetters,  Clariss. 


AN   EVENING  RAMBLE  ON  THE  ALLEGHANY 
MOUNTAINS. 

FROM  my  earliest  childhood  I  have  been  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
mountain  scenery.  The  difficult  and  laborious  ascent,  the  dark  ravine, 
the  lofty  precipice,  the  overhanging  rock,  the  cool,  pure,  and  invigor 
ating  air,  the  limpid  spring,  the  rushing  torrent,  and  the  refreshing 
shade  of  the  primeval  forest,  give  to  these  pillars  of  the  sky  an  inde 
scribable  charm.  The  noise  and  turmoil  of  a  busy  world  never  intrude 
upon  their  solitude.  The  warring  passions  of  the  heart  are  subdued, 
and  the  pride  of  man  is  humbled  before  the  magnificence  of  nature.  A 
reverential  awe  creeps  over  the  soul,  and  we  unconsciously  proceed 
with  slow  and  cautious  steps,  as  if  in  the  divine  presence  and  treading 
upon  holy  ground.  The  boasted  triumphs  of  art,  the  architectural 
remains  of  former  ages,  sink  into  insignificance.  The  triumphal  arch, 
the  lofty  column,  the  solemn  temple,  and  the  time-defying  pyramid, 
excite  our  astonishment  and  admiration,  when  considered  in  connection 
with  the  limited  powers  of  their  short-lived  authors  ;  but  how  puerile 
they  appear  by  the  side  of  those  lofty  summits,  which  the  almighty  arm 
of  a  being  of  infinite  perfections  erected  !  I  do  not  propose,  however, 
to  write  an  essay  on  mountain  scenery,  but  merely  to  describe  an  inci 
dent  which  my  partiality  for  such  scenery  enabled  me  to  witness. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  summer  evening,  while  sojourning  for  a  time 
among  the  valleys  of  the  Alleghanies,  that  I  left  my  dormitory  for  the 
purpose  of  enjoying  my  accustomed  ramble  among  the  mountains. 
The  sun,  surrounded  with  golden  drapery,  was  tinging  their  forest- 
crowned  summits  with  his  departing  rays.  The  merry  notes  of  the 
feathered  songsters  were  heard  only  at  intervals.  The  winds,  as  if 
lamenting  the  departure  of  the  king  of  day,  had  retired  to  their  cav 
erns  ; — while  the  streams,  enlarged  by  the  recent  rain,  murmured  a 
louder  note  of  joy. 

I  was  sitting  upon  a  fallen  tree,  at  the  foot  of  a  limestone  cliff, 
gazing  with  enthusiastic  delight  upon  the  enchanting  scene,  when  I 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps.  Pre 
ferring  to  contemplate  nature  and  nature's  God  alone,  I  adopted  the 
necessary  measures  in  order  to  remain  concealed.  I  soon  perceived 


132  AN    EVENING    RAMBLE    ON 

that  the  individual  who  had  thus  unconsciously  broken  in  upon  my 
solitude,  was  a  gentleman  who  had  apparently  attained  the  meridian  of 
life.  A  settled  melancholy  had  stamped  the  deep  lineaments  of  sorrow 
upon  his  countenance,  and  even  a  superficial  observer  might  have 
detected  a  mind  dissatisfied  with  itself  and  with  the  world  around  it. 
As  he  approached  my  hiding  place,  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  the 
following  apparently  extemporaneous  song.  Between  the  sentiment  of 
his  song  and  the  tune  in  which  it  was  sung,  there  was  a  striking  incon 
gruity,  which  I  attributed  to  a  vain  attempt  to  appear  cheerful  in  the 
midst  of  despondency  and  gloom.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  it 

THE.  BACHELOR'S  SOLILOQUY. 

The  sun  has  sunk  behind  the  hills, 
On  thirsty  plants  the  dew  distills, 
And  peace  and  joy  each  bosom  fills, 

Except  my  own  ; 
My  heart  with  secret  anguish  thrills, 

And  mine  alone. 

I've  sought  the  cause,  and  sought  it  long, 
I  ask  the  birds,  whose  cheerful  song 
Is  heard  the  woods  and  fields  among  : — 

With  plaintive  tone 
They  warbling  cry — "  You  know  'tis  wrong 

To  live  alone." 

When  zephyrs  fan  me  and  pass  by, 
My  bosom  heaves  with  many  a  sigh, 
As  with  faint  voice  I  ask  them  why 

My  peace  is  gone  : — 
Methinks  their  whispering  murmurs  cry — 

"  You  live  alone  !" 


THE  ALLEGHANY  MOUNTAINS.         133 

A  golden  cloud  where  spirits  dwell, 
Breathes  o'er  my  soul  a  magic  spell, 
And  long  and  loud  I  bid  it  tell 

Where  joy  has  flown  : — 
"  Away  from  him,"  its  tempests  yell, 

"  Who  lives  alone !" 

I  ask  the  mountains  and  the  streams, 
Why  life  to  me  a  burden  seems, 
And  joys  appear  like  idle  dreams  : — 

"  The  fault's  your  own," 
Replies  each  rock,  each  rill  that  gleams, 

"  You  live  alone  !" 

I  look  above ;  my  eyes  rest  where 

Angelic  hosts  by  myriads  are  ; 

I  pass  them  by,  and  send  my  prayer 

Up  to  God's  throne : 
A  small  still  voice  breathes  on  the  air — 

"  Live  not  alone  !" 

Alone  !  alone  !  methinks  the  sound 
Echoes  the  wide  earth's  circuit  round, 
To  vex,  to  harass,  and  to  wound ; 

My  heart's  deep  moan 
Finds  voices  in  the  blue  profound — 

"  Alone  !  alone  !" 
12* 


MUSINGS  ON  DEATH. 

THE  feeble  hand  that  now  indites  these  lines 

Is  destined  for  the  grave.     God  knows  how  soon 

'Twill  crumble,  like  a  thing  of  nought,  away. 

A  few  short  days,  or  months,  or  years  perchance, 

May  intervene,  ere  heaven  sent  death  shall  land 

Me  on  thy  dubious  shores,  eternity. 

As  some  lone  rain-drop  mingles  with  the  sea, 

So  I  must  fall  and  mingle  with  the  vast 

Unknown  that  skirts  the  narrow  boundaries 

Of  time.     That  mighty  power  which  here  controls 

All  matter  and  all  mind  ;  which  beams  alike 

From  peopled  atoms  and  revolving  spheres  ; 

Which  marks  each  vagrant  comet's  course,  and  sees 

Each  sparrow  fall — alone  can  tell  the  time, 

And  place,  and  manner  of  my  last  great  change. 

My  cherished  flesh  may  lifeless  sink  where  watch 

The  green-eyed  monsters  of  the  deep  for  prey ; 

Their  banquet  hall  may  be  some  coral  cave, 

And  there,  perhaps,  they'll  gorge  themselves  on  me, 

While  ocean  winds  howl  o'er  the  ill-fated  spot 

And  chant  my  requiem.     When  far  away 

From  home,  from  kindred,  and  from  country  dear, 

Strange  forms  may  gather  round  my  dying  bed, 


MUSINGS    ON    DEATH.  135 

And  watch  with  tearless  eyes  and  untouched  hearts, 

My  spirit  struggling  for  its  liberty. 

But  'tis  my  wish  to  die  beneath  the  same 

Bright  skies  that  shone  upon  my  infancy. 

May  fond  hearts  cheer  me  in  that  trying  hour 

With  words  of  comfort,  and  with  looks  of  love  ; 

And  when  life's  feeble  pulse  no  longer  beats, 

And  the  enfranchised  soul  to  worlds  unknown 

Has  soared,  may  this  frail  temple,  where  so  long 

It  dwelt,  be  buried  'neath  the  still  green  spot 

Where  rest  the  ashes  of  my  ancestors — 

That  my  poor  dust  may  mingle  there  with  theirs. 

Above  my  grave  no  useless  stone  shall  tower, 

To  tell  the  passer-by — what  none  ere  knew 

Before — how  great  and  good  and  virtuous 

He  was  who  sleeps  in  Death's  embrace  below. 

The  memory  of  the  truly  great  alone 

Should  live  when  they  are  gone,  and  such  require 

No  sculptured  marble  to  record  their  deeds  ; 

Their  names  are  graven  on  the  hearts  of  men  ; 

Their  works  will  be  their  monument — more  true 

Than  the  triumphal  arch — more  lasting  than 

The  obelisk.     But  what  is  earthly  fame — 

What  man's  applause,  when,  leaving  sin  and  death, 

We  enter  on  the  vast  and  untried  scenes 

That  lie  beyond  ?     Swift  as  a  ray  of  light 

We  go  from  world  to  world,  and  visit  all 


136  TO    ELLA. 

The  stars  that  gem  the  darkened  canopy 

Of  night,  and  fly  to  those  which  mortal  eyes 

Ne'er  saw ;  the  laws  which  govern  each  we  learn, 

And  mark  the  wonders  with  which  all  abound. 

And  when  bright  seraphs  hymn  their  Maker's  praise, 

Our  lyres  shall  join  in  unison  with  theirs. 

Thus  ever,  while  eternity  shall  roll 

Her  vast  unnumbered  cycles  round,  shall  Joy, 

In  blissful  ether,  spread  her  growing  wings. 


TO  ELLA. 

DEAR  Ella,  list !  to  thee  I'll  own 

That  oft  I've  mourned  the  chains  that  bind  me, 
They  make  me  spend  life's  spring  alone — 

Alone  I  fear  old  age  may  find  me. 

O  !  I  would  gaily,  gladly  bear 

The  worst  of  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 

I'd  always  laugh  and  ne'er  despair, 
If  where  I  am  you  was  but  there  too. 

Not  that  I'd  have  thee  taste  my  woes — 

O  heaven  forbid  that  thou  should'st  know  them ! 

On  dizzy  heights  bright  flowers  repose, 
Unconscious^of  the  abyss  below  them. 


TO    ELLA.  137 

They  sip  the  dew,  they  bask  in  light, 

They're  oft  refreshed  by  gentle  showers  ; 

They  bud  and  bloom  and  charm  the  sight, 

Though  near  their  home  the  storm-god  lowers. 

I've  roamed  the  woods  ;  I've  seen  their  pride 

By  lightning  scathed  and  wild  tornado, 
While  flowers  unharmed  bloomed  by  their  side, 

As  I  have  hoped  by  me  one  may  do. 

When  racked  with  pain  by  day  and  night, 

I  often  wish  that  thou  wert  near  me, 
As  darkness  flees  before  the  light, 

My  pains  would  cease,  thy  presence  cheer  me. 

Each  beast  that  roams  the  forest  wide, 

Each  bird  whose  wings  the  blue  skies  sever, 

The  fish  that  in  the  waters  glide, 

Have  found  their  mates — and  thus  'twas  ever. 

Then  why  should  I  alone  be  doomed 

To  spend  a  hermit's  life  in  sadness  ? 
'Twere  better  far  to  be  entombed ! 

A  single  life  is  worse  than  madness. 

Without  his  Eve,  e'en  Eden's  bowers 

Could  not  dispel  the  gloom  of  Adam  ; 
His  days  were  years,  his  moments  hours — 

And  was  it  strange  ?     I  ask  you,  madam. 


138  TO    ELLA. 

Worse  off  than  he  am  I,  you'll  own, 

My  strength  is  gone,  my  youth  is  flying, 

Without  his  joys  I  live  alone, 

Although  with  love  I'm  almost  dying. 

But  I'll  not  mourn  at  heaven's  decree, 

They're  ne'er  unkind,  though  oft  they  seem  so, 

Great  blessings  still  are  left  to  me, 

More  are  in  store — at  least  I  dream  so. 

The  rainbow's  arch  the  clouds  adorn, 

And  radiant  Hope  these  words  has  spoken — 

"  The  darkest  hours  precede  the  morn— 
The  chains  that  bind  will  soon  be  broken  !" 

POSTSCRIPT. 
Forgive  my  rhymes — yet  read  them  o'er, 

And  mark  each  thought,  and  word,  and  letter, 
And  if  there's  aught  that  you  deplore, 

O  blot  it  out,  or  make  it  better. 


O  CALL  AGAIN. 

THE    MAID'S   ADDRESS   TO    A   FAITHLESS    LOVER. 

0  CALL  again  !  yes,  call  once  more, 

Though  nought  but  farewell's  should  be  spoken  ; 
Give  me  one  word — one  look — before 

The  tie  that  binds  is  rudely  broken. 

Too  great  presumption  'twas  in  me 

To  think  that  aught  but  friendship  led  thee, 

To  talk  and  laugh  and  joke  so  free, 

With  one  you  ne'er  designed  should  wed  thee. 

It  was  my  fault — I  should  have  broke 

The  silken  chord  with  which  Love  bound  me, 

But  Passion  rose  when  Reason  spoke, 

And  wound  the  chords  more  firmly  round  me. 

Now  farewell,  Peace  ! — and  Hope,  farewell ! 

The  fire  that  warmed  will  soon  consume  me  ; 
Despair  succeeds  Love's  magic  spell, 

To  early  death  Love's  shaft  will  doom  me. 

But  call  once  more  ! — yes,  call  again  ! 

On  bended  knee  I  do  implore  thee  ; 
'Twill  soothe  my  heart,  'twill  ease  its  pain, 

If  but  again  I  do  adore  thee  ! 


A  STRAY  ANGEL. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  A  YOUNG    LADY,  WHO   WAS   SUFFERING   FROM   A 
SINGULAR   DISEASE    OF   THE    EYES. 


As  I  was  walking  out  one  day, 
I  saw,  disguised  in  human  clay, 
An  angel  that  had  strayed  away 

From  some  bright  world  above ; 
As  it  was  born  in  purer  skies, 
Earth's  sinfulness  destroyed  its  eyes, 
And  now  it  would  but  could  not  rise 

Where  all  is  peace  and  love. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  friend  ?"  I  cried  ; 
It  started — blushed — then  deeply  sighed, 
And  with  a  mild  bland  voice  replied, 

"  We  have  no  names  in  heaven, 
But  when  I  took  a  mortal's  frame, 
And  fairest  of  the  fair  became, 
I  then  of  course  required  a  name, 

And  MARY  ANN  was  given." 


TO  CATHARINE. 

DEAR  KATE  : — 

THE  rose  you  gave  me  is  no  more.  Upon  this  melancholy  occasion 
tears  woyild  be  as  useless  as  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  bear  my  bereave 
ment  with  tranquil  composure.  Having  composed  the  following  Dirge, 
allow  me  to  suggest  to  you  the  propriety  of  singing  it  once  a  day,  at  sun 
down,  for  thirty  days,  as  a  slight  tribute  of  respect  for  its  departed  fra 
grance  and  withered  beauty.  Knowing  that  you  will  sympathize  with 
me  in  this  hour  of  trial  and  affliction,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  sub 
scribe  myself  Yours,  &c.  C.  I. 


THE    WITHERED   ROSE. 

TUNE — "  Oft  in  the  stilly  night." 

"  Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black  !" 
Let  earth  and  sky  be  shaded ! 

Let  guns  and  thunders  crack  ! — 
My  rose  has  drooped  and  faded ! 

Its  fragrance  fled — its  beauty  gone — 

My  rose  is  dead — I  had  but  one. 

Let  none  complain  of  woes, 
Or  think  their  hearts  are  riven, 

Who  never  lost  a  rose, 

By  some  fair  damsel  given. 

Its  fragrance  fled — its  beauty  gone — 

My  rose  is  dead — I  had  but  one. 
13 


142  LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY. 

I've  seen  the  lovely  die, 
Like  hopes  by  fancy  cherished — 

But  now,  the  deep-drawn  sigh 

Proclaims — my  rose  has  perished  ! 

Its  fragrance  fled — its  beauty  gone — 

My  rose  is  dead — I  had  but  one. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  LADY  UPON  THE  RECEIPT 
OF  A  SPLENDID  CACTUS. 


ALTHOUGH  I  love  the  poet's  song, 
And  oft  have  felt  ambition's  flame, 

I  never  joined  the  countless  throng, 
Who  strive  to  earn  a  poet's  fame. 

For  well  I  knew  it  were  as  wise 
In  making  wings  to  spend  my  time, 

That  I  might  soar  where  eagle's  rise, 
And  fly  with  them  from  clime  to  clime. 

For  nature  has  to  me  denied 
A  poet's  gifts,  a  poet's  power, 

And  for  them  I  had  never  sighed 
Till  I  received  from  thee  a  flower. 


LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY.  143 

That  flower — how  beautiful  and  bright ! 

I  mourn  to  think  'twill  soon  decay  ; 
And  yet  'twould  pall  upon  my  sight, 

Could  I  the  giver's  face  survey. 

But  beauty  is  a  fragile  flower, — 

It  only  charms  the  gazer's  eye  ; 
While  mind  o'er  heart  and  soul  has  power — 

It  never  droops,  it  cannot  die. 

And  mind  is  thine,  and  beauty  too, 
Bewitching  charms  to  thee  are  given, 

The  happy  swain  that  marries  you, 

Will  find  on  earth  Mohammed's  heaven. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AFTER  A  PLEASANT  INTERVIEW 
WITH  I  KNOW  WHO. 

YE  lovers  of  beauty, 

List !  list  to  my  lays  ! 
I  deem  it  my  duty 

To  warble  her  praise, 

Whose  eyes  are  all  brightness, 

Whose  heart  is  all  love, 
Whose  form  has  a  lightness 

Like  spirits  above. 

But  such  are  the  praises 

Men  ever  bestow, 
When  caught  in  the  mazes 

Of  love  here  below. 

Though  the  mind  is  decrepid, 

Their  tongues  can  still  go — 
Good  heavens,  how  insipid  ! — 

'Tis  Love  makes  them  so. 

If  the  hair's  not  disheveled, 

The  dull  vacant  stare 
Shows  the  mind  is  bedeviled 

When  Cupid  is  there. 


LINES.  145 


Though  the  fire  that  now  warms  me 

Is  heightened  by  grace, 
The  beauty  that  charms  me 

Lies  not  in  the  face. 

This  small  piece  of  knowledge 

Is  true,  I  believe, 
Though  not  taught  at  college — 

Externals  deceive. 

Give  the  peacock  to  others, 
He  charms  but  the  eye — 

With  all  his  gay  feathers, 
He  mounts  not  the  sky. 

If  the  words  were  not  evil, 

His  voice,  I  should  say, 
Would  frighten  the  devil 

And  drive  him  away. 

The  pickpocket's  curses 
This  truth  have  oft  told — 

'Tis  not  the  best  purses 
Contain  the  most  gold. 

Most  excellent  covers 

Envelop  bad  books — 
How  foolish  for  lovers 

To  go  by  mere  looks ! 
13* 


146  LOVE    AND    FIRE. 

For  beauty  will  vanish, 
Bright  flowers  soon  decay, 

But  knowledge  can  banish 
Life's  evils  away. 


LOVE  AND  FIRE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  LADY  UPON  HER  RETURN  FROM  A  VISIT  ABROAD. 

THE  joy  I  feel  at  thy  return, 

Reveals  itself  in  song ; 
'Twas  certainly  unkind  in  thee, 

To  stay  away  so  long. 

As  eve's  last  shadows  wore  away, 

I  looked  for  thee  in  vain, 
And  envied  those  who  shared  thy  smile — 

0  why  did  you  remain  ? 

Men  say  that  absence  conquers  love — 
They  speak  most  false,  I'm  sure  ; 

Some  spurious  kinds  it  may,  I  grant, 
But  nought  true  love  can  cure. 

In  chimney  corners  as  I've  mused, 

(That  spot  the  bard  inspires  !) 
Methought  the  different  kinds  of  love 

1  saw  in  different  fires. 


LOVE    AND    FIRE.  147 

With  flint  and  steel  how  long  it  is 

Before  love's  tinder  catches  ! 
But  when  congenial  spirits  meet, 

They  burn  like  loco  matches. 

In  making  fires  much  of  depends 

On  skill,  and  time,  and  places — 
So  circumstances,  it  is  said, 

In  love  will  alter  cases. 

Like  chaff  some  love  will  quickly  burn, 

It  turns  at  once  to  flame, 
But  then  like  chafT  it  gives  no  heat — 

'Tis  only  love  in  name. 

Another  kind  is  like  poor  oak, 

Which  in  the  water  grew, 
It  will  not  burn,  it  cools  our  fire, 

In  spite  of  all  we  do. 

So  hot  sometimes  are  love  and  fire, 

The  danger  is  of  scorching — 
Platonic  love,  like  Lehigh  coal, 

Requires  but  little  watching. 

The  flame  of  both  is  bright  and  clear, 

The  eye  can  see  no  smoke, 
The  first  burns  best  when  fortune  frowns, 

The  last  when  it  is  broke. 


148  LOVE    AND    FIRE. 

But  then  they  differ  ;  coal  has  dross — 

Platonic  love  has  not ; 
Compared  with  some  the  last  is  cold — 

The  first  intensely  hot. 

That  base  and  mercenary  love 
Which  asks  but — "  Is  she  rich  ?" 

Is  like  poor  wood  besmeared  with  oil, 
Or  covered  o'er  with  pitch. 

These  soon  burn  off,  and  contrast  makes 
The  smoky  fireplace  sadder ; — 

The  wife's  gold  gone,  the  husband  swears 
He  wishes  Satan  had  her. 

At  first  the  lark  makes  some  wood  burn, 
But  soon  'tis  black  and  sooty — 

'Tis  thus  with  skin-deep,  outside  love, 
It  vanishes  with  beauty. 

Some  love  resembles  seasoned  pine, 
It's  out  before  one  knows  it ; 

And  some,  like  green  wood,  burns  awhile, 
If  patiently  one  blows  it. 

But  true  love  is  like  hickory, 
The  rest  the  merest  trash  is, . 

It  burns  and  gives  a  steady  heat, 
Until  we  turn  to  ashes  ! 


TO    MARY A    VALENTINE.  149 

0  may  this  hickory  love  be  thine — 

For  such  'twas  no  doubt  given — 
It  far  excels  all  earthly  love — 

It  rivals  that  of  heaven. 

My  vagrant  pen !  how  it  has  strayed  ! 

I  only  bade  it  say, 
How  pleased  I  am  at  your  return — 

How  sad  when  you're  away. 


TO  MARY— A  VALENTINE. 

I  SOUGHT  for  bliss  'mong  men  in  vain, 
And  e'en  in  crowds  felt  solitary, 

I  found  no  balm  to  soothe  my  pain, 
Until  I  chanced  to  meet  thee,  Mary. 

How  desolate  this  heart  of  mine, 

Till  you  became  my  Valentine  ! 

I  toiled  for  years  in  search  of  gold, 
My  heart  was  base  and  mercenary, 

Its  sympathies  were  bought  and  sold, 
For  then  I  had  not  seen  thee,  Mary. 

O  wretched  was  this  heart  of  mine, 

Till  you  became  my  Valentine  ! 


150  TO    MARY A    VALENTINE. 

I  struggled  long  in  search  of  fame, 
A  thankless  task  !  'twas  foolish,  very  ; 

For  well  I  know  a  deathless  name 
Is  valueless,  compared  with  Mary. 

What  folly  seized  this  heart  of  mine, 

Ere  you  became  my  Valentine  ! 

But  when  at  last  I  sought  for  love 

That  ne'er  grows  cold,  that  will  not  vary, 

I  looked  below,  around,  above — 
But  looked  in  vain  till  I  saw  Mary. 

What  rapture  filled  this  heart  of  mine, 

When  you  became  my  Valentine  ! 


LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY,    WHO    TOLD    THE 
AUTHOR  THAT  HER  EYES  WERE  GRAY. 

You  tell  me  that  your  eyes  are  gray — 
Time  will  grow  old  ere  I  believe  it ! 

I've  seen  them  turn  night  into  day — 
If  gray,  'tis  strange  I  can't  perceive  it. 

If  you  should  say  the  sky  is  green, 

That  blue  bells  look  like  pickled  herring, 

I'd  take  my  oath  the  world  had  been 
From  Adam  down  most  grossly  erring. 

But  for  your  eyes — those  gems  that  beam 
With  wit  and  fun,  with  love  and  beauty — 

Can  they  be  aught  but  what  they  seem  1 
I  must  say  no — it  is  my  duty. 

Then  say  no  more  your  eyes  are  gray, 
That  color  ne'er  to  them  was  given ; 

Their  glances  drive  dull  care  away, 

As  sunbeams  drive  the  mists  from  heaven. 


THE  FAIRY  WREATH. 


TO  S.  AND  C. 


THE  Graces,  when  one  day  at  play, 
Their  various  charms  together  blended, 

But  Venus  stole  the  wreath  away, 

And,  quick  as  thought,  to  earth  descended. 

"  Bring  me  earth's  fairest  maid,"  she  cried, 
To  waiting  spirits  clustering  round  her, 

"  Search  every  land,  on  moon-beams  ride, 

Till  meteor's  glare  proclaims  you've  found  her." 

The  goddess  ceased — and  quick  away 

To  every  land  the  spirits  glided  ; 
Some  chose  a  maid  whose  eyes  were  gray — 

For  dark-eyed  lass  the  rest  decided. 

So  Venus  cut  the  wreath  in  two, 

And  long  ere  they  had  time  to  miss  her, 

She  gave,  dear  Sarah,  half  to  you, — 
The  other  half  was  thine,  Clarissa. 


LOVE  AT  THE  VIRGINIA  SPRINGS. 

IN  the  summer  of  the  year  18 — ,  a  young  lady  from  a  northern  city, 
accompanied  by  her  parents,  arrived  at  the  Hot  Springs  in  Virginia, 
and  remained  there  several  weeks.  Nature  had  been  liberal  to  her  in 
intellectual  gifts,  and  her  mind  was  improved,  polished,  and  disciplined 
by  study.  In  all  the  constituents  of  beauty,  she  had  few  equals  and 
no  superiors.  I  had  often  hung  with  delight  upon  the  lips  of  the  orator, 
but  never  was  sensible  of  the  resistless  power  of  eloquence,  until  I  saw 
it  beaming  from  her  dark  bright  eye.  While  perusing  the  page  which 
genius  had  inscribed  with  thoughts  as  imperishable  as  time,  I  had  felt 
an  enthusiasm  no  pen,  however  gifted,  can  describe ;  but  when  I  gazed 
upon  her  speaking  face,  and  traced  upon  that  faithful  tablet  of  her  soul 
the  varied  emotions  of  her  active  mind,  I  was  constrained  to  acknowl 
edge  that  the  printed  page  was  powerless  compared  with  the  unwritten 
language  of  the  heart — the  silent  but  effective  eloquence  of  nature.  In 
her  breast,  the  warm  and  generous  impulses  of  the  soul  found  a  wel 
come  home,  and  virtue  an  unsullied  temple.  Her  voice  was  soft,  clear, 
and  musical ;  she  had  a  good  command  of  language,  and  her  con 
versation  abounded  with  original  and  striking  thoughts.  Noth 
ing  that  could  injure  the  feelings  of  the  most  sensitive  mingled  with 
her  ready  wit,  and  there  was  no  austerity — no  forbidding  coldness 
in  her  graver  moments.  Although  free  from  any  real  or  affected  timid 
ity,  she  was  not  bold ;  though  gay,  she  was  not  trifling ;  though  in 
clined  to  the  sentimental,  she  was  not  in  love.  Fortune  had  likewise 
favored  her,  for  her  parents  were  wealthy,  and  she  was  their  only  child.  As 
might  rationally  be  supposed,  she  was  a  great  favorite  among  the  young 
men  at  the  springs  ;  but  while  she  suitably  acknowledged  their  atten 
tions,  and  freely  proffered  them  her  friendship,  none  of  them  had  reason 
to  suppose  that  they  had  made  any  impression  upon  her  heart.  But  as 
love  is  blind  and  bold  and  confident  and  headstrong,  two  of  them  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  Red  Sulphur  Springs,  but  after  remaining  there  twenty- 
four  hours,  thought  it  expedient  to  return.  This  retrograde  movement 
was  undoubtedly  caused  by  good  and  sufficient  reasons,  which  will 
readily  suggest  themselves  to  the  mind  of  the  ingenious  reader. 

14 


154  LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS. 

In  the  first  part  of  the  poem  reference  is  made  to  a  story  told  at  the 
Springs,  of  a  certain  Dutchman,  who  had  heard  that  the  Springs  were 
hot,  but  was  rather  incredulous.  Being  in  the  neighborhood  one  day, 
he  determined  to  test  the  truth  of  the  report.  He  went  down  into  the 
valley  where  the  Springs  are  situated  with  slow  and  cautious  steps,  but 
speedily  returned  upon  the  run,  with  evident  marks  of  terror  depicted 
upon  his  countenance.  As  he  approached  his  wagon,  which  he  had 
left  in  charge  of  his  son,  he  exclaimed — "  Drive  on,  John  !  for  heaven's 
sake,  drive  on  ! — for  hell  is  within  a  mile  of  this  place" 


Not  fifty  years  ago  I  trow, 

The  facts  I'm  going  to  tell, 
Occurred  in  old  Virginia, 

"  Within  a  mile  of  hell." 

Start  not,  dear  reader,  that  last  line 

Describing  the  location, 
Is  borrowed  from  some  nameless  chap — 

It  is  not  my  creation. 

i 

Its  author  spoke  it  in  his  fright, 
(I  think  they  called  him  Dutch,) 

Or  else  I'm  sure  he  ne'er  had  used 
That  word,  nor  any  such. 

He  was  a  plain  strait-forward  man, 
(I  know  not  who  begot  him,) 

His  artless  mind  kept  nothing  back, 
When  once  an  idea  smote  him. 


LOVE    AT     THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS.  155 

Amazed  he  found  the  springs  all  hot, 

And  smelt  the  brimstone  too, 
And  thought,  as  you  or  I  had  thought, 

If  we  as  little  knew. 

But  after  all  he  was  to  blame, — 

He  was,  I  do  declare, 
He  should  have  called  that  dreadful  place 

"  The  prison  of  despair." 

For  then  fastidious  ears  could  hear 

The  story  and  be  gay, 
And  that  harsh  word  had  never  marred 

The  music  of  my  lay. 

A  rose  to  Shakspeare  might  be  sweet, 

When  called  by  any  name — 
If  none  but  Shakspeares  lived  on  earth, 

With  all  'twould  be  the  same. 

Philosophers  may  have  their  dreams, 

And  moon-struck  poets  sing, 
But  men  will  more  regard  the  name, 

Than  they  regard  the  thing. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  theme, — 

And  that  of  course  is  wrong, 
For  neither  Dutch  nor  Irishmen 

Are  heroes  in  my  song  ; 


156  LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS. 

But  two  young  lads  whom  Cupid  pierced 
With  chance-shots  from  his  bow, 

Which  left  them  in  an  agony 
That  lovers  only  know. 

While  one — a  lank  Green  Mountain  boy — 

Had  felt  such  pains  before, 
The  other  had  a  virgin  heart, 

And  therefore  suffered  more. 

As  mown-grass  droops  beneath  the  sun, — 

As  chilly  night-winds  sigh — 
As  the  doomed  pig  resigns  himself, 

When  fate  ordains  to  die — 

They  run  and  roared  and  sighed  and  drooped, 

And  on  the  midnight  air 
Sent  up  their  wailings  to  the  moon — 

The  wailings  of  despair. 

It  pained  my  heart,  indeed  it  did, 

To  see  them  in  such  plight, 
They  neither  ate  nor  smiled  by  day, 

They  could  riot  sleep  at  night. 

The  doctor's  grave  advice  they  heard, 

And  promised  to  obey — 
But  pocketed  his  recipes 

And  flung  his  pills  away. 


LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS.  157 

Their  friends  were  much  alarmed  of  course, 

And  ill  concealed  their  grief, 
And  marveled  much  that  medicine 

Afforded  no  relief. 

We  should  not  blame  them  for  deceit, 

But  charge  the  sin  to  Venus, 
Besides,  you  know  divines  have  said 

We're  born  with  Satan  in  us. 

The  power  that  made  the  serpent's  fang, 

Designed  that  it  should  use  it — 
If  sinful  born,  'tis  good  to  sin, 

Although  we  may  abuse  it. 

But  love  and  not  divinity 

Now  claims  my  humble  song, 
Dark  clouds  surround  theology — 

Too  dark  to  grope  among. 

We  left  the  lads  in  wretched  mood, 

Sick,  sad,  disconsolate ; 
The  course  they  took  to  gain  relief, 

I  purpose  now  to  state. 

Among  the  mountains  far  away, 

A  sulphur  spring  is  said 
To  cure  sometimes  in  heart  complaints — 

I  think  they  call  it  Red. 
14* 


158  LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS. 

It  may  have  cured  in  days  of  yore, 

But  Truth  bids  me  confess, 
Some  hearts  that  went  there  sound  that  year, 

Soon  left  them  in  distress. 

Ask  you  the  cause  of  this  result  ? 

The  wherefore  and  the  why  1 
Thou'lt  find  it  hid  'neath  beauty's  smile — 

It  beamed  from  beauty's  eye. 

These  sick  and  sad  young  friends  of  ours, 

Who  heard  the  water  praised, 
Packed  up  their  duds  and  went  up  there 

To  get  their  spirits  raised. 

Some  men  declared — (but  what  of  that  ? 

Can  mortals  read  the  mind  ?) 
That  other  motives  called  them  hence, 

Than  those  which  they  assigned. 

They  wished  the  lads  might  find  relief, 

To  go,  they  said,  was  wise — 
And  then  they  smiled,  and  shook  their  heads, 

And  looked  with  leering  eyes. 

ft'was  a  fair  and  lovely  morn, 
That  saw  the  youths  depart — 

Few  linger  long  to  say  farewells, 
Who  go  to  cure  the  heart. 


LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS.  159 

They  journeyed  fast,  for  close  behind, 

Despair,  with  haggard  mien, 
Rode  all  unveiled — in  front,  bright  Hope's 

Deceitful  smile  was  seen. 

They  reached  at  last  the  enchanting  vale, 

The  healing  water  found, 
And  drank  large  quantities  of  course, 

To  heal  their  heart's  deep  wound. 

But  ah  !  how  vain  are  human  hopes  ! 

What  cause  for  human  fears  ! 
How  oft  dark  clouds  obscure  the  sun, 

In  this  poor  vale  of  tears  ! 

Our  little  globe  turned  round  but  once, 

But  one  sun  rose  and  set, 
Ere  they  abruptly  left  the  spot 

They'll  not  so  soon  forget. 

0  why  so  soon  retrace  their  steps  ? 

They  surely  were  to  blame, — 
Perhaps  they  saw  some  dreadful  sight, 

Or  dreamt  some  dreadful  dream. 

If  mountain  echoes  told  the  truth, 

The  secret  will  appear, 
Though  some  at  first  declared  'twas  odd, 

And  some,  uncommon  queer. 


160  LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS. 

"  I  saw  them  on  their  winding  way," 

One  silent  jogged  along — 
With  faltering  voice  the  other  sung 

This  melancholy  song  : — 

SONG    OF    THE    DISAPPOINTED. 

To  weave  her  net,  I've  seen  Despair 
Of  all  their  charms  disrobe  the  Graces, 

Love  was  entwined  with  beauty  there — 
Deceitful  smiles  with  raven  tresses. 

The  gloomy  cave  where  Ruin  lies, 
Has  flowery  pathways  leading  to  it — 

How  oft  the  young,  the  good,  the  wise, 
Are  led  by  woman's  arts  to  view  it ! 

See  Melancholy's  face  forlorn! 

Her  sunken  eyes,  and  hair  disheveled, 
Of  woman's  broken  vows  were  born, 

When  Love  and  Hope  with  Beauty  reveled. 

Again  from  heaven  should  angels  fall, 

To  deepest  wo  should  Vengeance  doom  them, 

On  Slighted  Love  methinks  she'd  call, 
And  bid  her  restless  fires  consume  them. 

The  ruby  wine,  the  sparkling  bowl, 

Man  once  must  quaff  or  else  they'd  doom  him, 

That  chain  is  broke,  but  still  his  soul 
Must  bend  and  bow  to  faithless  woman. 


LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS.  161 

Since  childhood  I've  renounced  as  vain 
Mint-juleps,  slings,  and  brandy-toddy, 

And  all  those  drinks  which  fire  the  brain, 
And  ruin  purse,  and  soul,  and  body. 

I've  drank  no  porter,  ale,  or  wine, 

To  sharpen  wit,  the  mind  illumine, 
But  ah  !  I've  knelt  at  beauty's  shrine, 

And  felt  the  witching  power  of  woman. 

Fair  as  the  rainbow's  gorgeous  belt — 

Fair  as  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
Was  she  to  whom  I  fondly  knelt, 

Supposing  Truth  with  Beauty  given. 

0  had  she  flown  to  heaven  away, 
Though  born  of  earth  no  eye  could  tell  it, 

No  spirits  there  had  called  her  clay, 
Her  face  and  form  was  so  angelic. 

She  said  she'd  be  my  faithful  bride, 

And  love  me  more  than  sire  or  brother — 

1  will  not  say  the  beauty  lied, 

But  ah  !  she's  wedded  to  another. 

Nought  but  her  broken  vows  are  mine — 
Another's  purse  her  fortune  blesses — 

Another's  arms  with  her's  entwine — 
Another  shares  her  fond  caresses. 


162  LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS. 

All  thoughts  of  love  henceforth  begone  ! 

For  time  thus  spent  is  worse  than  wasted — 
O  that  its  sweets  I  ne'er  had  known  ! — 

Its  bitter  drafts  I  ne'er  had  tasted  ! 

My  heart's  strong  fibres  I  will  twine 

Round  some  bright  star  that  shines  above  me, 

I'll  think  its  rays  of  light  all  mine, 

And  swear  they  see  and  know  and  love  me. 

My  eyes  shall  oft  to  heaven  be  raised, 
And  fondly  shall  my  heart  adore  it, 

I'll  hear  no  rival  planet  praised, 

Nor  even  named,  if  named  before  it. 

I'll  revel  in  its  beams  all  night, 

And  curse  the  sun  that  wakes  the  morrow — 
But  mourn  when  storm-clouds  veil  its  light, 

And  think  them  stellar  robes  of  sorrow. 


Thus  sung  the  youth — mock  not  his  grief, 

Nor  criticise  his  song  ; — 
Love  bows  the  haughty  spirit  low, 

It  makes  the  timid  strong. 

Go  tread  each  habitable  spot 

Beneath  the  icy  pole — 
Go  where  Saharah's  burning  sands 

Like  waves  of  ocean  roll ; 


LOVE    AT    THE    VIRGINIA    SPRINGS.  163 

Though  here  the  fountains  all  are  froze, 

Though  fountains  there  are  dry, 
Show  me  but  men,  I'll  show  you  hearts 

That  love  has  made  to  sigh. 

Love  is  a  strange,  mysterious  power, 

A  riddle  with  a  sting, 
The  source  of  many,  many  joys, 

And  heartfelt  suffering. 

The  arch  fiend  with  his  cloven  feet, — 

Alas  !  how  many  know  ! — 
Resembles  much  in  some  respects 

Sir  Cupid  with  his  bow ; 

For  while  they  both  produce  much  harm, 

As  God  ordained  they  should, 
So  both  are  necessary  means 

To  cause  the  greatest  good. 


LINES  TO  AN  ABSENT  LADY. 

I  MOURN  the  fate  that  bade  thee  leave  me, 

I  sigh  to  think  that  thou  art  gone, 
What  though  at  night  bright  dreams  deceive  me, 

Joy  soon  hurls  Fancy  from  her  throne. 

The  deep,  dark  gloom  of  heartfelt  sadness, 

Is  ever  mine  when  you're  away  ; 
Your  presence  fills  my  heart  with  gladness, 

And  turns  my  darkness  into  day. 

Should  fortune  frown,  and  throw  around  me 
The  ills  reserved  for  fiends  below, 

If  thou  art  by  they  ne'er  can  wound  me, 
Thy  presence  heals  the  deepest  wo. 

Return  then,  oh  return,  I  pray  thee, 
Remain  not — haste  !  oh  do  not  stay  ! 

Let  nought  retard,  let  nought  delay  thee — 
To  live  is  death  when  you're  away ! 


THE  MYRTLE  WREATH. 

LINES  SENT  TO  A  LADY  WITH  A  WREATH  OF  MYRTLE. 

ACCEPT,  kind  friend,  the  wreath  I  send  thee, 

And  listen  while  I  strive  to  tell, 
In  language  that  must  not  offend  thee, 

How  these  green  leaves  become  thee  well. 

Spring's  mildest  winds  were  gently  blowing, 
A  warm  sun  drank  the  sparkling  dew, 

When  first  I  saw  this  myrtle  growing — 
It  clasped  the  earth  ! — I  thought  of  you. 

Spring  passed  away — the  year's  bright  morning  !- 
And  hot  winds  blasted  when  they  blew — 

These  leaves  lost  nought  of  their  adorning, 
They  flourished  still — I  thought  of  you. 

Gay  hearts  "  the  harvest  home"  were  singing, 
The  forest  felt  cold  autumn's  breath, 

But  still  these  leaves  were  fondly  clinging — 
Like  woman's  love,  they  knew  not  death. 
15 


166  THE    MYRTLE    WREATH. 

I  watched  them  long,  and  still  they  flourished, 
When  wintery  winds  were  sweeping  by  ; 

Hard  frosts,  deep  snows,  the  myrtle  nourished, 
That  caused  most  other  plants  to  die. 

Emblem,  I  cried,  of  fair  Rebecca ! 

0  could  he  twine  a  wreath  of  fame, 
With  deathless  leaves  the  bard  would  deck  her, 

And  bid  the  nation's  shout  her  name. 

For  when  misfortunes  gathered  round  him, 
And  sorrow's  bitter  cup  was  given, 

'Twas  then  she  sought,  'twas  then  she  found  him, 
And  with  her  smile  brought  light  from  heaven, 


WHAT  IS  DEATH? 

MY  heart  has  often  bled  as  I  have  seen 

The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  fair  cut  down, 

While  tott'ring  age  has  trembled  o'er  their  bier, 

And  shed  Grief's  bitter  tears  on  young  Hope's  grave. 

The  loved  and  cherished  form  is  soon  decayed ; 

A  deeper  shade  and  more  luxuriant  growth 

Is  seen  in  the  green  sod  ;  and  he  who  thought 

Himself  an  angel  quite,  and  little  less 

Than  God,  is  seldom  mentioned,  and  is  soon 

Forgot  ;  while  other  insects  flutter  their 

Brief  hour,  then  lie  beside  him,  and  in  turn 

Feed  the  voracious  worms.     But  what  is  death  ? — 

It  is  a  strange  and  fearful  mystery ! 

I  stood  beside  the  bed  of  my  sick  friend, 

And  thought  to  find  the  secret  as  I  gazed 

Upon  him  in  that  last  sad  hour  when  life 

And  death  seemed  struggling  for  the  mastery. 

I  watched  intently.     The  heart  had  almost  ceased 

To  beat ;  the  breast  reluctant  rose  and  fell ; 

The  glassy  eyes,  which  had  with  mental  fire 

So  lately  sparkled,  now  saw  naught  they  seemed 

To  gaze  upon  ;  and  the  dull  ear,  attuned 

To  melody,  and  rich  with  treasured  song, 


168  WHAT    IS    DEATH? 

No  longer  listened  to  the  voice  of  love, 

Or  heard  the  stifled  sobs  of  those  who  wept. 

A  few  convulsive  struggles  closed  the  scene, 

And  my  loved  friend  was  numbered  with  the  dead. 

And  can  this  be  the  whole  of  death  ?  I  said  ; 

Is  life  mere  breath — the  same  in  man  and  beasts  ? 

Are  all  the  different  forms  of  life  we  see 

But  different  patterns  of  the  self-same  dust  ? 

Is  that  a  mere  machine  which  men  call  mind, 

And  will  it  perish  when  our  bodies  die  1 

Or  is  there  that  in  man  which  will  outlive 

The  clay  which  here  but  cripples  and  confines, 

And  still  exist,  though  earth  is  burnt  with  fire, 

And  black  oblivion  mantles  o'er  the  sky  ? 

My  mind  was  soon  perplexed,  and  like  the  man 

Who  gropes  in  some  dark  cave,  he  knows  not  where, 

I  sought  the  light.     Ten  thousand  forms  of  life 

I  saw,  but  no  two  forms  alike  appeared. 

I  studied  long  before  I  drew  the  line 

Between  the  matter  which  hath  life,  and  that 

Which  is  inanimate — so  near  do  they 

Together  come  ;  and  from  this  line,  the  scale 

Of  being  in  successive  steps  ascends. 

Man  crowns  the  series,  but  some  men  I  found 

Who  seemed  in  every  thing  but  form  and  speech 

But  little  better  than  the  brutes  tha|  die. 

There  was  one  fact  that  struck  me  forcibly ; 


WHAT    IS    DEATH  ?  169 

From  first  to  last  I  marked  the  brains  of  all, 
And  found  that  as  these  changed  in  shape  and  size 
And  texture,  so  the  beasts  and  men  were  changed 
In  all  the  powers  of  instinct  and  of  mind. 
The  brain  enlarges — and  the  mind  expands  ; 
The  brain  decays — and  all  the  energy 
And  power  of  mind  is  gone  ;  the  brain  soon  dies — 
But  is  it  thus  with  mind  ?     Ah,  that's  the  point 
Where  reason  showed  her  impotence.     These  things, 
She  said,  might  still  exist,  although  the  brain 
Should  be  the  mind  itself,  or  but  the  tool 
Or  instrument  with  which  it  operates. 
When  thus  my  reason  left  me  in  the  dark, 
I  sought  the  aid  of  those  esteemed  as  wise, 
And  bade  them  tell  me  what  that  is  which  men 
Call  death.     Ten  thousand  voices  quick  replied, 
And  every  voice  seemed  different.     But  one, 
Amid  the  wild  confusion  which  ensued, 
More  loud  and  harsh  and  dismal  than  the  rest, 
My  ear  detected,  as  it  madly  cried — 
"Death's  an  eternal  sleep  /"     I  heard  no  more  ; — 
The  inhuman  thought  struck  terror  to  my  soul, 
And  it  recoiled  with  horror  from  the  scene. 
That  sacred  spot  where  all  at  last  must  lie 
I  sought,  and  lingered  long  among  the  tombs, 
And  prayed  the  guardian  angel  of  the  dead 
For  light.     The  lone  still  hour  of  midnight  heard 
15* 


170  A    DREAM    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

My  prayer,  and  chilly  night  winds  bore  it  far 
Away,  but  brought  no  answer  back.     I  sought, 
In  my  despair,  my  long  lost  father's  grave, 
And  cried, — "  My  father !  O  my  father  !  if  o'er 
This  spot  thy  spirit  hovers,  tell  me,  O  tell 
Me,  what  it  is  to  die  ?"     I  listened  long — 
But  no  fond  voice  replied.     I  cried  again — 
And  echo  mocked  me  in  my  agony ! 
At  last  I  asked  religion's  aid,  and  she 
Alone  brought  comfort — this  was  her  reply  : — 
"  DEATH  is  THE  DARKENED  ENTRANCE  INTO  LIFE  ; 
MAN  LIVING,  DIES  ;  BUT  DYING,  EVER  LIVES." 


A  DREAM  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

I  WAS  musing  alone  in  my  dark  silent  cell, 

The  winds  were  all  hushed,  even  lovers  were  sleeping, 
While  the  stars  seemed  to  watch  o'er  the  world  where  we 
dwell, 

To  guard  men  from  ill,  and  to  comfort  the  weeping. 

I  reviewed  my  past  life,  and  it  seemed  like  a  dream — 
How  sweet  were  its  pleasures !  how  bitter  its  sorrow ! 

And  when  Hope's  painted  bark  had  been  wrecked  on  life's 

stream, 
The  Siren  deceitfully  whispered,  "  to-morrow." 


A    DREAM    OF    CHILDHOOD.  171 

Soon,  fatigued  with  my  vigils,  sleep  came  to  my  aid — 
Kind  friend  of  the  weary,  the  care-worn,  the  poor — 

And  he  banished  each  fear,  all  my  anguish  allayed, 
With  dreams  far  too  joyous,  too  bright  to  endure. 

The  fond  days  of  my  childhood  came  back  to  my  view, 
I  roamed  the  same  fields,  and  I  swam  the  same  river, 

I  enjoyed  every  sport  that  my  infancy  knew, 

And  thought,  like  a  child,  to  enjoy  them  forever. 

The  companions  I  loved,  and  that  shared  in  my  glee, 
Came  round  me  again — how  familiar  their  faces  ! 

And  their  hearts  were  all  buoyant,  all  bounding  and  free, 
Upon  them  life's  ills  had  left  none  of  their  traces  ; 

For  the  young  tender  plant  gently  yields  to  the  blast 
Which  prostrates  the  oak,  and  with  giant  arm  rends  it, 

But  it  lifts  up  its  head  when  all  danger  is  passed, 

Its  beauty  enhanced,  and  with  strength  the  storm  lends  it. 

Would  to  God  all  were  now  what  they  seemed  to  me  then ! 

As  spotless  and  pure,  and  as  free  from  all  guile  ; 
But  alas  !  when  some  ceased  to  be  boys,  when  they  grew 
to  be  men, 

Sin  claimed  them  as  hers,  and  the  fairest  were  vile. 

It  is  vain  now  to  wish  that  I  might  have  slept  on, 
And  never  have  known  that  my  bliss  was  ideal, 

For  shrill  chanticleer  spoke,  bidding  Fancy  be  gone — 
She  fled  with  my  joys,  but  left  woes  which  were  real. 


COLD  WATER. 


I. 

O  SHOULD  the  maid  I  will  not  name, 
The  minstrel's  book  perchance  survey, 

Let  not  those  eyes  which  ever  beam 
With  beauty's  bright  and  dazzling  ray, 

Although  I've  chose  a  hackneyed  theme, 
Turn  from  this  humble  page  away  ; 

For  should  her  glances  cease  to  fire, 

The  bard  would  break  his  worthless  lyre. 

II. 
t 

No  costly  offering  can  I  bring, 
Although  I  love  the  fountain  well, 

Whose  crystal  depths  impart  no  sting, 
And  every  other  drink  excel ; 

But  I  a  votive  song  will  sing, — 

Though  rude  and  rough,  my  muse  shall  tell. 

What  priceless  nectar  God  has  placed 

Within  the  earth's  maternal  breast. 


COLD    WATER.  173 

III. 

Let  others  quaff  the  ruby  wine, 

Let  others  seize  the  maddening  bowl, 

Where  deadly  adders  unseen  twine, 
And  dart  their  poison  to  the  soul, 

Where  all  in  man  that  seems  divine, 
Is  placed  at  passion's  blind  control — 

Let  others  thus  their  lips  pollute, 

And  sink  below  the  groveling  brute. 

IV. 

But  at  the  spring,  the  brook,  the  well, 

O  fill  the  crystal  cup  for  me, 
For  nought  on  earth  can  thirst  dispel 

Like  water  in  its  purity  ; 
And  health,  and  peace,  and  virtue  dwell, 

And  hearts  are  light,  and  souls  are  free, 
And  love  and  joy  and  wealth  prevail, 
Where  men  drink  nought  but  "  Adam's  Ale." 

V. 

Some  mingle  with  Love's  holy  flame, 
The  fires  that  blast  the  buds  of  Hope, 

And  some  pollute  pure  Friendship's  name, 
While  gathering  round  the  drunkard's  cup — 

But  Love  and  Friendship  these  disclaim, 
And  bid  us  fill  our  glasses  up, 

And  freely  drink,  and  gaily  sing 

Around  the  bright  and  sparkling  spring. 


174  COLD    WATER. 

VI. 

Ambrosial  drink  !  what  else  can  give 

The  eye  such  fire,  the  cheek  such  bloom  ! 

The  poisoned  draughts  which  men  Contrive, 
Degrade  the  victim  they  consume  ; 

The  fires  of  hell  within  him  live, 
And  send  him  reeling  to  his  tomb, 

A  loathed,  debased,  and  wretched  sot, 

By  all  unwept,  by  all  forgot. 

VII. 
Hark !  heard  ye  not  that  deafening  cheer  ! 

Hark  !  how  it  shakes  heaven's  azure  dome  ! 
Behold  !  behold  !  what  throngs  appear  ! 

A  hundred  times  ten  thousand  come  ! 
And  as  the  advancing  hosts  draw  near, 

The  once  degraded  slaves  of  rum, 
In  pure  cold  water's  strength  now  strong, 
Send  up  to  heaven  their  grateful  song. 

VIII. 
Ye  more  than  widows  cease  to  mourn, 

Nor  strive  to  hide  a  loved  one's  shame, 
Your  children's  cheeks  no  more  shall  burn, 

When  they  repeat  their  father's  name — 
For  lo  !  rum's  victims  now  return, 

And  to  the  world  aloud  proclaim, 
That  liquid  fire  no  more  shall  mock, 
Their  drink  shall  lave  the  mountain  rock. 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS. 


I. 

To  right  and  left, — in  front,  and  flank,  and  rear, 
On  all  and  every  side  I  make  my  bow ; 

A  new-born  author  feels  almighty  queer, 
As  all  who've  had  experience  must  allow  ; 

In  dark  suspense,  between  gay  hope  and  fear, 
He  lists  the  sentence  which  the  world  bestow, — 

Like  one  who  waits  the  verdict  of  his  life, 

Or  asks  a  doubtful  maid  to  be  his  wife. 


II. 

I've  canes  and  crutches,  but  they  can't  defend  me 
Against  that  small  but  powerful  foe — the  pen  ; 

Though  it  killed  Keats,  I  think  'twill  never  end  me — 
It  wounded  White,  but  ne'er  shall  be  my  bane  ; 

'Twere  better  far  that  Byron's  ghost  should  lend  me 
The  weapons  which  that  minstrel  wielded,  when 

He  fought  the  critics  without  giving  quarter, 

And  mingled  gall  with  Helycon's  pure  water. 


176  THE    AUTHOR    TO    HIS    READERS. 

III. 

With  face  all  brass,  with  heart  and  soul  all  flint, 
That  may  be  true  which  once  an  author  wrote, 

"  'Tis  pleasant  sure  to  see  one's  name  in  print" — 
(Excuse  me,  reader,  if  sometimes  I  quote,) 

With  all  due  deference,  I  would  humbly  hint, 
Their  author's  case  alone  those  words  denote : — 

But  what  his  motives  were — to  write  what  led  him, 

The  reader  knows,  perhaps,  if  he  has  read  him. 

IV. 

Applied  to  me,  I  once  for  all  deny  it, 

To  send  my  book  out  now  gives  real  pain, 

If  every  man  would  eulogize  and  buy  it, 

I  should  be  pleased,  and  might,  perhaps,  be  vain  j- 

But  if  the  learned,  the  fair,  the  good  decry  it, 
The  bard,  I  trow,  cold  comfort  will  obtain  : 

He  had  not  sinned,  but  when  he  scarce  could  move, 

He  took  to  physic,  poetry,  and  love. 

V. 

He  used  the  first,  because  he  knew  no  better, 
And  thinks  to  spell  it,  d  should  precede  evil ; 

But  to  the  last  he  feels  himself  a  debtor — 
Love  was  so  very  kind,  humane,  and  civil, 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS.        177 

He  could  not,  if  he  would,  resist  his  fetter ; 

When  these,  with  sickness,  brought  him  to  a  level 
"With  Samson,  when  his  famous  locks  were  shorn, 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  was  the  other  born. 

VI. 

He  felt  an  aching  pressure  at  the  heart — 

"  Write !"  something  whispered, "  there's  relief  in  verse !" 
So  with  strong  feeling,  but  with  little  art, 

He  wrote  his  songs,  and  thought  them  good  of  course  ; 
Then  wishing  much  a  pressure  to  impart, 

Not  to  his  breast,  but  to  his  empty  purse, 
He  gave  to  Pegasus  the  spur  and  lash, 
And  sung  the  songs  inspired  by  want  of  cash. 

VII. 
O  who  will  say  'tis  not  a  first  rate  plan  ? 

Who  its  success  will  dare  presume  to  doubt  ? 
Has  not  Hygeia  shown  to  Hahnemann, 

That  what  will  cause  disease  will  drive  it  out  ? 
Perhaps  that  some  more  faith  would  entertain, 

If  he  had  followed  Hahnemann  throughout, 
And  not  neglected  one  rule  he  imposes, 
But  used  the  medicine  in  smaller  doses. 

VIII. 

Youth,  grace,  and  beauty  first  his  Muse  inspired, 
And  Passion  found  relief  and  utterance  in  song ; 
16 


178        THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS. 

But  had  not  love  the  author's  bosom  fired, 

He  ne'er  had  sung  ;  love  made  his  weakness  strong  ; 

So  if  his  book  has  aught  to  be  admired, 

The  meed  of  praise  will  not  to  him  belong  ; 

To  those  alone  the  glory  should  be  given, 

Who  soothed  his  sorrow  and  made  earth  a  heaven. 


IX. 
But  if  some  jaundiced  critic  shall  engage, 

With  line  and  rule  and  microscopic  eye, 
In  weighing  every  line  of  every  page, 

His  morbid  vision  errors  may  descry  ; 
Of  these  I  claim  exclusive  parentage, 

And  all  his  castigating  powers  defy ; — 
Let  him  not  spare — no  mercy  need  be  shown — 
The  faults  (for  faults  there  are)  are  all  my  own. 

*» 

X. 
But  while  I  make  this  general  confession, 

And  own  my  "  chips"  are  not  from  errors  free, 
I  mean  the  execution,  the  expression — 
The  sentiments  will  bear  close  scrutiny ; 

Printing,  not  poetry,  is  my  profession, 

. 
And  though  I  toiled  eight  years  for  a  degree, 

'Twas  not  at  college,  but  at  Lovell's  school, — 
So,  like  the  birds,  I  cannot  sing  by  rule. 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HIS  READERS.        179 

XL 

* 
I  answer  those  who  ask  what  could  have  led 

My  unfledged  Muse  to  write  in  Spenser's  measure, 
First — some  great  bards  had  tried  and  failed,  'twas  said  ; 

Next — being  sick,  I  had  sufficient  leisure  ; 
Third — having  nought  to  lose,  I'd  nought  to  dread  ; 

And  fourth — it  was  my  sovereign  will  and  pleasure  : — 
Who  seeks  more  reasons,  not  content  with  four, 
Must  help  themselves,  or  make  tracks  for  the  door ! 

XII. 

As  maids  are  housed  until  they're  seventeen, 
To  finish  (!)  what  is  called  their  education ; 

As  wine  long  kept  will  strength  and  flavor  gain, 
And  speedily  produce  inebriation — 

So,  it  is  said,  the  children  of  the  brain 

Should  undergo  at  least  nine  years'  gestation, 

To  give  full  time  to  blot  and  beautify — 

But  mine  are  published  ere  the  ink  is  dry. 

XIII. 

Respecting  the  short  poems  I  might  say, 
They  were  not  written  for  the  public  eye, 

But  this  a  wrong  impression  would  convey, 
It  seems  a  want  of  motive  to  imply ; 


180  THE    AUTHOR    TO    HIS    READERS. 

But  when  love  bade  me  sing  some  amorous  lay, 

Truth  would  disown  me  should  I  now  deny, 
The  smiles  of  all,  since  smiling  first  begun, 
Had  pleased  me  less  than  the  bright  smile  of  ONE. 


XIV. 

My  task  is  done  ! — the  pains  of  travail  o'er ! 

Upon  the  world  the  minstrel  casts  his  child ; 
It  may  be  still-born — such  have  been  before  ; 

Or  it  may  live,  and  living  be  reviled, 
And  oft  its  parent  may  its  birth  deplore, 

Yet  its  conception  tedious  hours  beguiled ; 
Whate'er  its  fate  may  be,  alive  or  dead, 
A  father's  blessing  rests  upon  its  head. 


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